


Fire and Ice

by The_Arkadian



Series: The Apostate Chronicles [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dubious Consent, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 69,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4903522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Anders receives word of the annulment of the Circle at Hossberg, it is the last straw; it is time to see an end of the Mage-Templar War. He sets out for the peace summit at the Temple of Ashes, and finds himself at the centre of world-changing events once more. Thedas will never be the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The healer closed the cabin door behind him then carried the gathering basket through to his work area and set it on the table. He pulled the gathering knife from his belt and hung it on the rack of utensils that hung on the wall over the worn wooden workbench, then reached for the herbs in the basket.

He sorted through them, gathering them into bunches. One bunch of elfroot, he set to one side, along with a few sprigs of crystal grace, then he tied the others up and carried them into the pantry, hanging them up to dry.

As he emerged from the pantry, an elderly ginger tabby wandered into the work room and mewed at him imperiously.

“Hello, Pounce,” smiled the healer, reaching down to scratch behind the cat’s ears before he made his way to the sink. He pumped water into the kettle, then gestured at the fire-place as he drew on his mana, tapping into it just enough to set the fire alight. He bent down to add more wood, then hung the kettle over the flames to boil.

He ground the elfroot and crystal grace together as he waited for the kettle to boil, humming quietly to himself. Pounce curled and twined himself around the man’s ankles, purring happily.

“Not suppertime yet, you hopeful beast,” chided the healer with a smile.

He heard the door open and a familiar voice call his name.

“In here, love!” the healer called.

Garrett Hawke stripped off his gloves and pulled off his cloak, dropping them on a nearby chair as he walked towards the work room. He paused in the doorway to lean against the frame and watch the healer working.

“What, no ‘hello’?” teased the former Champion of Kirkwall. “Where’s my ‘welcome home’ kiss?”

Anders looked up and smiled, his hands stilling upon the pestle and mortar. Setting them aside, he wiped his hands on a cloth before moving around the table to throw his arms around Hawke’s neck with a grin before kissing him, long, slow and deeply. As they finally parted for breath, Anders leaned up to peck another small kiss upon the tip of Hawke’s nose. “Missed you too,” he grinned.

He let go and moved to the sideboard to fetch cups for tea. “What news?” he called over his shoulder as he set the teapot on the table then lifted down the tea caddy.

“Bad,” replied Hawke. “The Hossberg Circle was annulled.”

The china pot of tea slipped from Anders’ suddenly-nerveless hands; it smashed upon the flagstone floor, scattering tea leaves unheeded as the colour drained from the blond apostate’s face.

“No,” he breathed. “Oh Maker, no. When?”

“Five weeks ago,” replied Hawke. “ The Seekers rose up against them. The news had only just reached the village when I got there.”

Anders stared at him, shaking his head mutely, his eyes glistening wetly.

Hawke wrapped his arms around the slender man as Anders’ chest began to heave, his shoulders shaking. “Easy there,” said Hawke softly. “They said many of the mages managed to escape; not all the templars obeyed. They managed to get many of the apprentices out. The sympathetic templars and many of the mages have gone to Weisshaupt; the Wardens have declared an amnesty for any that wish to join them. But half the Circle are dead.”

“My fault,” gasped Anders, trying to fight down the stinging tears that threatened to spill. “It’s all my fault. How many is that now?”

“Hush,” said Hawke gently. “You couldn’t have known. You were possessed; it was Vengeance-”

Anders pulled away abruptly. “No!” he exclaimed hotly. “No, no, no. We are _not_ having this argument again.” He stalked away from Hawke back to the table where he attacked the crushed herbs as though to inflict his sudden anger on them.

“Love-” began Hawke.

Anders slammed his hands down upon the table, breathing hard as he fought to control his temper. “For the last time,” he said quietly. “Vengeance and I were one. His thoughts were mine. By that time, I could not have told you where I ended and he began; there _was_ no difference. You may as well say _he_ was possessed by _me_ ; there are no words for what we had become. Abomination doesn’t begin to describe it.” He looked up at Hawke, still frowning. “No matter which way you look at it, it was _my_ hands that started the Mage-Templar War. The deaths of every single mage at Hossberg can be laid directly at my feet and no other.”

“Anders, you weren’t responsible for the actions of the Seekers or the destruction of the Nevarran Accord!”

“Tell that to Dairsmuid! Tell that to every Circle mage that died at Hossberg! To every mage slaughtered by templar swords, be they from the Circle or no! Do you think it matters to them now?” Anders shouted, waving his arm in the vague direction of Hossberg. “It’s not Lambert’s name they’ll curse but mine! I may not have killed them personally myself as I did in Kirkwall, but their blood is on my hands all the same-”

“There’s going to be a Conclave,” said Hawke with an air of desperation.

“What?” said Anders.

“Divine Justinia has called a Conclave. At the Temple of the Sacred Ashes in the Frostback Mountains. A peace summit - Seekers, Templars, mages. The Divine wants to put an end to the war.”

“The rebel mage leaders would never attend - it would be a perfect chance for the Seekers and Templars to wipe them out,” said Anders slowly. 

“Both sides are sending emissaries,” nodded Hawke.

Anders stared down at the table, his gaze distant. After a while, he spoke again, his voice quiet but determined.

“I’m going.”

Hawke blinked at him. “What do you mean, you’re going? Going where?” he asked. Anders looked up at him.

“I’m going to the conclave. I started this whole damned war. I’m going to be there when they end it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders encounters familiar faces.

Anders stared up at the mountain path, his breath streaming white upon the bitter wind. There was a quiet mew from inside his hood.

“Hush, Pounce,” he said soothingly. He took a firm grip on his staff and began to make his way up the mountain.

He’d been this way only once before; he’d worn Warden blue back then, not dusty black swathed under a heavy grey cloak. Pounce had been with him then, too; it seemed fitting they were making this journey again together.

Hawke had argued with him over this. He refused to let Anders go. There had been shouting.

“What about Fenris?” Hawke had shouted. “Are you just going to walk off without a word to him?”

“Garrett, I have no more idea of where he is than you do. He’s chasing slavers on the Wounded Coast - it would be impossible to track him down in time. You _know_ this.” Anders had stared at him until Hawke shook his head and turned away.

“Garrett. Love,” he’d said quietly. “I _have_ to do this. Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see.” His voice low, belligerent with hurt. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

He’d slipped out in the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, as Hawke slept on. He couldn’t ask Hawke to do this with him. His pack on his back, his staff - plain ash, merely a walking aid - in his hand, Pounce resting comfortably in the hood of his grey travelling cloak.

He’d thought of leaving the cat behind, but somehow Pounce had known he wasn’t planning on coming back. He’d jumped into Anders’ hood, just like old times. As the blond apostate made his way up the mountain path he was glad of the company, truth be told. 

He wouldn’t take Pounce all the way to the Temple of Ashes; there was an inn up by the pass in the small settlement of Haven just ahead. He’d look for some kind soul there to look after the elderly cat.

Just in case he didn’t make it back.

He arrived at the inn just as the sun was going down. He ordered a bowl of stew; the landlord’s wife was enchanted with Pounce and brought him a little dish of meat cut-offs and scraps which the elderly cat polished off quickly, purring happily. The landlord’s wife made a fuss of Pounce, plainly enamoured with him; when Anders left the next morning, it was alone. The woman had promised to look after the cat “just until you get back.” Anders bade the cat a gentle farewell; the tears didn’t come until the inn was out of sight. He didn’t expect to see Pounce again.

He walked for two days until finally he rounded a corner to see the Temple of Ashes up ahead. Marshalling his courage, he took a deep breath and headed towards it. He’d passed several groups of pilgrims along the way; he slipped in unnoticed with another group just before they passed into the temple. With his hood up, he was just one more Andrastean pilgrim amongst many; the Templar guards barely even glanced at him as he entered.

He was in. Time to seek a way into the Conclave.

***

Pain. He hurt all over, but worst was the blazing agony in the palm of his left hand. He staggered a few paces forward then fell to his knees. He was aware of the stench of burning flesh and smoke; as he lifted his head a little, he saw booted feet coming towards him. He collapsed onto his face and knew no more.

***

He came back to consciousness slowly. He was slumped against a stone wall, his wrists manacled. He knew even before he opened his eyes that they were enchanted to deaden his magic; there was a grey nothingness inside where his magic should be. He wasn’t cut off from the Fade; he could feel it lingering just the other side of the emptiness, out of reach.

He half-opened his eyes and kept his gaze on the floor before slowly lifting it to look around himself. He was surrounded by guards.

What had happened? He tried to think, to remember, but it was a blank. He vaguely remembered entering the temple with the other pilgrims, but then... nothing. It was a blank. No matter how hard he tried to remember, nothing came to him.

No... wait. There was something... running, and a woman. A glowing figure, holding her hand out to him... then blinding light and pain.

The cell door suddenly flew open; he lifted his eyes slowly to stare at the woman in Seeker armour who glared at him.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she hissed as she leaned over him.

“I...I...” he stammered as she straightened and began to prowl around him. 

“The Conclave is destroyed!” she growled. “Everyone who attended is dead.” She turned and glared at him. “Except _you_.”

A second woman stepped in; hooded, he caught a glimpse of red hair as she turned to stare at him, and his eyes widened a little. He knew her. Leliana.

From the way her eyes widened at the same time, he knew she had recognised him also. _Oh Maker,_ he thought. _Please don’t say anything. Don’t give me away. It wasn’t me! Not this time!_

“Explain this!” the Seeker demanded as she suddenly reached down and grasped his left wrist in a vice-like grip. She wrenched it up, and the mark in his palm suddenly flared with bright green light. He cried out as it sent a jagged lance of pain through his hand, licking up his arm.

“I can’t!” he cried. “I don’t know any more about this than you do!” He gritted his teeth; the pain was fierce and insistent. It was a relief when the bright actinic green light died down, taking the pain with it. He threw a desperate glance at Leliana. 

“I believe him,” the former bard said softly.

“What?” exclaimed the Seeker. “Leliana, you can’t -”

“Look at his face, Cassandra. He is speaking the truth. He has no more idea of what’s going on than we do.” She glanced back at Anders. “And we _need_ him.”

“Whatever you think it is you think I did, I didn’t do it!” cried Anders desperately.

Leliana crouched down in front of him. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?” she asked him gently.

“I remember running,” he said slowly. “And... a woman.”

“A woman?” asked Leliana.

“She... she held her hand out to me,” he said quietly. “I... don’t remember much after that. My hand hurting... and then waking up here.”

“What is your name?” demanded the Seeker - Cassandra, Leliana had called her.

“Trevelyan,” said Leliana. Anders’ eyes widened; Leliana gave a slight shake of her head. For whatever reason, she wasn’t going to give him away. He gave her a grateful look.

“You know him?” said Cassandra, surprised.

“I met him once, at the Circle in Ostwick. The Warden went there to recruit mages for the Wardens,” replied Leliana, the lie flowing easily from her lips.

“I see,” said Cassandra. “Then you vouch for him?”

“I do,” replied Leliana. “You can trust him. He is a talented mage, and a healer.”

“Ah. He will be useful then,” replied Cassandra. “We have very few healers.”

“And if he is a healer you can be assured he is not a blood mage,” added Leliana.

“That is true,” pondered Cassandra.

Anders could only watch as the two women discussed him. He had no idea what was going on; his mind still reeled over the news that the Conclave was destroyed, everyone dead. The two women withdrew for a moment to speak. He heard something about a forward camp and a rift, and then they were coming back to him.

“Come with me,” said Cassandra as she unlocked his manacles.

“What _did_ happen?” asked Anders.

“It will be easier to show you,” she replied.

***

He stared at the rift. He wasn’t sure exactly what to make of it; it sparked and glowed brilliant green, like the Breach in the sky - and the mark in his hand; every time the rift pulsed, his mark sent an answering flare of pain through his hand.

“Quickly, before more come through!” exclaimed a voice, and suddenly a strange, bald elf was grabbing his wrist and yanking his hand up and out, palm facing towards the rift.

There was a flash from his mark, and suddenly a flare of power that shot out to strike the rift. He could feel the mark _drawing_ upon something - a draining of his energy, it seemed = and then with a last bright flash, the rift was gone, and Anders felt a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over him. He staggered and would have fallen if not for the strange elf’s hand around his waist.

Behind him he could hear Cassandra talking to Varric - and wasn’t _that_ a surprise? Of all the people he would have expected to run into, he was the last. The dwarf’s eyes had lit up in recognition, but at Anders’ bare shake of the head the surprise was replaced by a look of comprehension.

“Got a name, Blondie?” Varric had asked, and Anders had to hide a smile at the old nickname.

“He is Trevelyan, from the Circle at Ostwick,” Cassandra had replied as Varric’s eyebrows crept up.

“Trevelyan, eh? Glad to make your acquaintance,” replied the dwarf.

Now they stood around and eyed each other. Anders straightened and turned to the strange elf.

“How did you know the mark would close the rift?” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t; I merely theorised,” he replied. “It seemed I was correct. The mark in your hand and the rift in the sky are of the same energy. The one can close the other.”

The elf, it transpired, was a mage called Solas; he and Cassandra seemed to know each other. As the elf and Seeker led the way to the forward camp, Anders dropped behind with Varric.

“Good to see you again, Blondie,” murmured the dwarf. “Where’s Hawke and Broody?”

“I left them behind,” replied Anders softly. “Fenris is somewhere on the Wounded Coast, fighting slavers.”

“They know you’re here?” asked Varric quietly.

“No,” replied Anders tersely. “And I prefer to keep it that way for now. I don’t want them getting involved. Cassandra is the Seeker you warned us about - the one who was looking for Hawke, isn’t she?”

“The very same,” agreed Varric. “She dragged me here in irons all the way from Kirkwall to the ass-end of nowhere.”

“A long way from Kirkwall,” said Anders softly. 

“That it is, Blondie, that it is,” replied Varric. “But it’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Varric,” replied Anders.

***

There were several small rifts to be dealt with, scattered around the mountainsides about Haven. Each one took a little more out of Anders until by the time they reached the Breach itself, he was staggering. Solas and Varric helped keep him upright. He was glad to see Leliana there, with her men. 

She slipped him a vial of lyrium when Cassandra’s back was turned; it helped revive him somewhat. He stared at the Breach in dismay. They expected him to close _that_?

There was a hard fight against the demons spawned by the Breach, and then he was standing before the glowing green column of swirling rift energies that reached towards the Breach itself. He drew a deep breath then raised his hand.

It hurt; Maker it _hurt_ , but he gritted his teeth and held on, feeling the energy slowly draining out of him as the mark in his hand flared and spat, each pulse driving jagged shards of pain down his arm.

The column of energy flickered then flared brilliantly before it was gone.

“Well done,” said Solas as he steadied Anders with a hand on his shoulder. “The Breach is not closed, but it is, at least, stabilised for now.”

Anders nodded, exhausted. “Well, that’s something,” he said.

“Blondie, you OK?” said Varric, concerned. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

Anders tried to speak, but his vision was clouding over. He felt his knees give way, and then he was falling.

*** 

He opened his eyes to shouting. He lay there for a few minutes, trying to work out where he was. He remembered Cassandra leaping forward, Solas’ hand on his shoulder as he fell, and then it had all gone dark. He supposed he must have fainted.

“And I tell you that man is Anders, the wanted apostate who destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall!”

Anders sat bolt upright. Maker. Someone had recognised him - a very angry someone, and he thought he recognised that voice.

Cullen.

Andraste’s tits, what was the templar doing here? He could hear Varric’s voice trying to calm the templar, Leliana talking over the top, Cassandra exclaiming in outrage. Other voices too - a woman’s voice with a cultured Antivan accent. Underneath it all, Solas was trying to be heard in a calm, reasoned tone.

Anders swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet, then stared down at himself. Maker’s breath, what was he wearing? Some sort of lilac tunic affair, fastened by a double row of shiny buttons down the front, and matching pants. Well, at least they hadn’t stolen his boots. He tugged them on hurriedly and got to his feet.

He followed the shouting voices until he found a room with a large table and Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana, Varric, Solas and a dark-skinned woman in Antivan dress and black hair in a neat yet elegant updo who held some kind of portable scribe’s desk, all arguing around it. The moment Cullen spotted him standing in the doorway, he grasped Anders by the arm and dragged him in, throwing him hard against the table. Anders had a brief moment to appreciate the hand-painted map spread upon its surface before Cullen was spinning him round and the templar’s sword was at his throat.

“Give me one good reason why I should let this murderer live!” snarled Cullen, pressing the edge of his blade against Anders’ throat. The blond apostate closed his eyes as his breath came in frightened pants.

“Because he’s the only one who can close the rifts!” shouted Leliana. “If you kill him then we have no way of closing that Breach, Cullen!”

Anders could feel Cullen’s breath hot on his face, and then Cullen abruptly shoved him back hard against the table and whirled away with a curse. Anders sprawled upon the table and clutched at his throat as Solas and Leliana came forward to help him to his feet. 

“Glad to see you too, Cullen,” he muttered as he turned back to face the templar.

“What are you doing here?” snarled Cullen. “Was killing Elthina not enough for you? Thought you’d add Divine Justinia to your tally, along with every other soul at that Conclave?”

“It wasn’t me,” Anders said. “I swear it.”

“I believe him,” said Leliana.

“As do I,” added Solas. “Not even a mage would have had the power to destroy the Temple of Ashes so completely, or cause the Breach. Whatever your past with this man, Commander, he is innocent of this. And he holds our only means to close the Breach. He is our only hope of salvation.”

“Salvation?” exclaimed Cullen, glaring at Solas. “Don’t talk to me of salvation! Not from _him_.”

“Cullen,” said Anders quietly. “Please believe me. I didn’t want this any more than you did. I don’t have the power to do something like this anyway, even if I had wanted to - which I don’t.”

“How did you even survive?” exclaimed Cullen. “When last I saw you, you were dead on the stones of the Gallows with Hawke’s dagger in your back!”

“It’s a long story,” said Anders.

“And one that can wait,” added Cassandra. “Commander, whether you like it or not, this man holds the only means we have to close the Breach.”

“Though we yet lack the power,” added Solas. “I believe a second attempt to close it will succeed - if the mark has more power. The same level of power that was used to open the Breach in the first place.”

“That won’t be easy to come by,” said Anders.

“No, indeed,” agreed the elf.

“Anders, Curly here is Commander of the Inquisition’s forces and troops,” said Varric.

“You already know Sister Leliana,” added Cassandra. “She is our spymaster.”

“Yes, thank you, Cassandra,” said Leliana with a touch of asperity. “Tactful as ever.” She waved a hand at the Antivan lady. “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our Ambassador and chief diplomat.” Josephine inclined her head and gave Anders a reassuring smile.

“Now introductions are out of the way, to business,” said Cassandra. “As Solas has said, your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.”

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” added Leliana. Anders turned towards her, his curiosity piqued.

“The rebel mages?” he echoed.

“And I disagree!” snapped Cullen. “I still say the templars could serve just as well!”

“What do you expect from a templar?” drawled Anders.

“Ex-templar, actually,” Cullen growled. “I am no longer part of the order.” That surprised Anders. He glanced to Varric then Cassandra; both nodded their heads. 

“Oh,” said Anders. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. “Then... well... good?”

“We need power, Commander,” said Cassandra. “Enough magic poured into that mark could -”

“Might destroy us all,” interrupted Cullen. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so -”

“Pure speculation,” interjected Leliana. Cullen glared at her before turning back to Cassandra.

“I know what templars are capable of,” growled Cullen.

“Unfortunately neither side will even talk to us yet,” said Josephine smoothly, as though Cassandra and Cullen weren’t visibly bristling at each other over the table. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition - and you, specifically,” she added, turning to Anders.

“If word has gotten out about my real identity then I’m not surprised,” said Anders with a shrug. “They’d love to get their hands on me and put a noose round my neck.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “After what I did in Kirkwall, I can’t blame them.”

“Do you expect me to believe this - this show of regret?” said Cullen in disbelief.

“It doesn’t really matter if you do or not,” replied Anders. He stared at Cullen, and felt the familiar old grief welling up. Ever since Hawke had brought the news of Hossburg it had lain there, just below the surface, waiting to break free. He felt his throat tightening. “But for what it’s worth, I do regret it. I regret the death of every single person who has died as a result of what I did - not just in Kirkwall, but elsewhere. Every innocent who has died - in Dairsmuid, Hossburg, and every other casualty of the whole damned bloody war.” He closed his eyes. “I wish I could take it back. Sweet Andraste, there isn’t a day that goes by when I don't wish I could take it back.” He lifted his head and opened his eyes to stare at Cullen. He could feel the prickle of tears in his eyes, hot and stinging. “If by dying I could bring back even one of them, then I’d die willingly - by your hand or by the noose. But I can’t.” He buried his face in his hands and wept.

Cullen stared at him; they were all staring at him. He could feel their eyes on him as his shoulders shook with every shuddering sob that wracked his body. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “So sorry.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder; he didn’t know whose. He leaned into the touch. “I don’t have the right to beg forgiveness, but... forgive me. Please forgive me!”

There was an arm around his shoulders now; a soothing hand rubbing his back gently as he wept against soft wool that overlaid chainmail; a distant part of his mind identified his comforter as Leliana.

“Perhaps we should discuss this later?” said Josephine a little uncertainly. Anders pulled away slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“No...no,” he said. “Go on. If this mark on my hand is our only chance to close that Breach then I want to know how we can do that.” He glanced at Cullen, who was giving him a strange look. “I know I can never atone for all the lives I’ve taken, both directly or indirectly. But if I can be of use in closing this Breach, then you may use me as you see fit.” He glanced back at Josephine. “Please, go on. You aid the Chantry has denounced me.”

“Yes, though I do not think they know who you are,” answered Josephine. “They only know that a mage survived the destruction of the Temple. Some are calling you - a mage - the Herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry.”

“They’re calling me _what_?” exclaimed Anders. “Oh Maker. No. No, this is - it’s too ridiculous!”

“I agree,” said Cullen heavily. He was still giving Anders that strange, almost speculative look.

“The remaining clerics have called it blasphemy, and we heretics for harbouring you,” Josephine added.

“Hang on - they’re more bothered by _that_ than a breach in the sky that spawns rifts spewing demons everywhere?” exclaimed Anders.

“Oh, they’re worried about it alright; they just don’t think _we_ can close it,” replied Cullen, still staring at Anders. It was making the blond apostate very uncomfortable.

In the end, they agreed that it would be best to approach Mother Giselle, a chantry cleric who was tending to the wounded in a refugee camp near Redcliffe. They agreed that Leliana's cover story - that he was Trevelyan, a refugee from the disbanded Circle of Ostwick - would stand; the Chantry did not yet know his true identity, and the longer that was the case then the better. It would do great harm to the fledgling Inquisition if it was known that the so-called Herald of Andraste were the destroyer of the Kirkwall Chantry. The meeting had broken up; as Cassandra moved away, she referred to Anders without thinking as “Herald”. It brought Anders up short; he stood leaning against the map table as the others filed out, lost in thought.

“You’ll be fine, Blondie; it’ll all work out, you’ll see,” said Varric as he patted Anders’ arm.

“Do you really think so, Varric?” asked Anders as he glanced down at his friend.

“Well-” began the dwarf, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“A word if you will, ‘Herald’,” said Cullen; Anders jumped. He thought the commander had left with the others. He stared at the former templar warily.

“You want I should stick around, Blondie?” asked Varric in a low voice, eyeing Cullen distrustfully.

“That won’t be necessary, Varric,” said Cullen. “I’m not going to hurt Anders. I just want to talk.”

“It’s alright, Varric. You can go,” said Anders, as he turned to face the former templar. Varric nodded slowly as he made his way reluctantly out.

Cullen turned and leaned on the map table with one hand whilst he regarded Anders intently.

“So. Tell me what happened in Kirkwall,” the commander said.

Anders swallowed hard, then nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat with Cullen, things don't go as planned in Val Royeaux, and a Tevinter magister in Redcliffe.

They had ridden hard for the hinterlands near Redcliffe. Anders had had plenty of chance to play over his conversation with Cullen along the way. It hadn’t been a comfortable conversation; Cullen had been unwilling to believe his fantastic tale of waking up in the Gallows, still alive and healing himself. Of his trip into the Dark Roads, meeting Isabela and joining her on the high seas. He’d had to pull off that ridiculous lilac tunic and show Cullen the scar upon his back where Hawke had driven his dagger in. 

He shivered as he felt Cullen’s fingers ghosting over his scars to linger over that one. Anders was leaning over the map on the table, bracing himself with his arms as he stared down. He stared at the map; he recognised the shape of Lake Calenhad, following it down to Kinloch at the bottom.

He managed not to flinch when Cullen’s warm fingers pressed against the scar.

“You should have died from this,” the former templar stated.

“I know,” Anders whispered.

“There were rumours, back in Kirkwall,” Cullen said quietly. “Rumours that you were possessed. A demon of vengeance, they said. And yet you were also a healer.”

“Not a demon,” Anders managed to get out. “At least, not at first. And it wasn’t... possession. I wasn’t an abomination in the usual sense.”

“Go on,” said Cullen. “I’m listening.” Anders could feel Cullen’s breath upon his skin.

“He was a spirit of Justice. I met him whilst I was in the Wardens. He was trapped in the body of a dead Warden named Kristoff. Kristoff’s body was deteriorating, and Justice would have... died, for lack of a better word. We joined, and we were one. It was a - a blending of spirits, if you like. Mostly I could tell which thoughts were mine, which were his. But towards the end it was more and more him, and less of me. And he had been... corrupted by my anger.”

“Are you telling me that this... _spirit_... was responsible for the destruction of the Chantry?” hissed Cullen as he gripped Anders’ shoulder and spun him around until the edge of the table pressed into the small of Anders’ back and the apostate was bent backwards over the table, Cullen’s cold steel breastplate hard against Anders’ chest.

“No. No!” cried Anders. “I told you - we were one! The destruction of the Chantry - I cannot blame that on anyone except myself. And I told you the truth - if by dying I could bring back even one victim from that day then I’d die gladly!”

“Truly?” growled Cullen as he stared intently into Anders’ eyes. The blond apostate found he couldn’t look away. “Would you truly meet your death gladly?” he whispered.

“I begged Hawke to kill me,” said Anders softly. “I’d earned death. And he granted it to me. When that knife drove into my back, I knew I was a dead man, and I was _glad_ , Cullen. I never expected to open my eyes again.”

“But you did,” said Cullen softly, searching Anders’ eyes.

“I did,” nodded Anders.

“How?” Cullen straightened and moved away, allowing Anders to straighten. The tall mage wrapped his arms around his bare torso and tried not to shiver; the war room was cold.

“I think one small spark of Justice remained. I think he surrendered his life to let me live. I did actually die, technically - enough that Vengeance was severed from me. But that little piece of Justice brought me back.”

“Why?” asked Cullen.

“I don’t know,” said Anders. “I’ve asked myself that same question over and over, every time I heard of another Circle annulled or disbanded, of yet more deaths in this senseless war. Why am I alive and they dead?”

Cullen was pacing with his hands behind his back, but now he turned and stared at Anders. “Perhaps the Maker has granted you one last chance at redemption,” he said softly. “Maybe you _are_ Andraste’s Herald.”

“You can’t believe that,” whispered Anders.

“And why not? There must be _some_ reason why you’re still alive,” said Cullen. 

Anders had pondered that over and over as they approached the hinterlands. He’d avoided thinking about it too deeply whilst he was with Isabela; the thrill of freedom upon the sea was too good a distraction, and then there had been that long period trapped in dreams, his mind caught in the Fade as Hawke, Isabela and Fenris tried to save him. Caught by Vengeance, who wanted to possess him once more; trapped by the malevolent entity in the staff; finally freed by the intervention of Flemeth herself.

It wasn’t until he and Hawke had managed to find a new life for themselves in the south of Ferelden and the news of the annulled and disbanded Circles began to reach them that the weight of what he had done began to settle heavily upon him once more, and often in the dark hours of the night he had lain awake asking himself that same question over and over as Hawke slept beside him, oblivious; _why_ was he still alive when so many were dead because of him? Why did Justice bestow this last parting gift upon him as the spirit was sundered from him by death?

He had no answer, but it gnawed at him.

It was laughable to think he was the Herald of Andraste. But it seemed that was what everyone believed him to be. Even Cullen referred to him as “Herald”. The only person who didn’t was Varric, thankfully; Anders didn’t think he could handle it if his old friend had started calling him it as well. Every time Varric called him Blondie, he felt a warm thankfulness in his heart; it was a small reminder of who he really was. Not some mythical figurehead, this object of reverence the Inquisition forces tried to treat him as, but Anders. Just... Anders.

He was aware of Cullen’s eyes upon him no matter where he was. He supposed he couldn’t blame him really.

They arrived at the refugee camp to find the war had overtaken them. The injured lay everywhere, the few Chantry healers overworked, not enough skilled healers among the mages to make up the difference. Cassandra had tried to direct Anders towards Mother Giselle, but Anders pulled away from her, drawn to the injured. Unbidden, he set to work. He may not have any idea what he was doing traipsing all over with the Inquisition, but this? Healing the sick and wounded? _This_ , at least, was familiar work. He stripped off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and called up mana in his hands to heal.

There were so many. Some were dead before he could reach them; many dying or grievously injured. When the Chantry healers realised what he was doing and the extent of his skill, they began directing him to those most in need of his healing, those not too far gone to be saved.

Cassandra gave up trying to pull him away. Anders was vaguely aware of Cassandra, Cullen and Varric discussing him, but his attention was on healing.

He became aware of an older woman working beside him as she pushed a vial of lyrium into his hand as he paused for breath. He nodded his thanks, downing it swiftly before moving on to the next patient.

“You are not what I was expecting, Herald of Andraste, but you are an answer to our prayers,” she observed when next he sat back for breath.

“Don’t,” said Anders tersely as he looked around for another patient. “Don’t raise me up to be something I’m not.” She laid a hand upon his arm.

“There are no more in need of your healing skills, Herald,” she said gently. He finally looked at her properly, staring at her robes. 

“You’re Mother Giselle,” he guessed.

“I am,” she answered gently.

“You... have no problem with my being a mage,” he said slowly. “You gave me lyrium so I could keep healing.”

“We do not teach that magic is evil,” said Mother Giselle as she rose to her feet and helped him up. “We teach that pride is evil - and does not corrupt only mages.”

They began to walk slowly through the refugee camp. “I have heard of the Chantry’s denouncement of you, Herald, and I am familiar with those behind it. I won’t lie to you; some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the next Divine.”

She led him to a quiet spot, away from the noise and bustle of the camp. “Some of them are simply terrified. So many good people, senselessly taken from us....”

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes against a wave of guilt. “I know,” he managed to say tersely. 

She patted his arm gently. “I see you are pained by it too, Herald. Your compassion does you credit.”

“We’re not here to talk about me,” Anders said, straightening as he lowered his arm. “Or are we?”

“The remaining clerics... they are lost. You should go to them; convince them that you are not a demon to be feared.” She gave him a faint smile. “They have heard only frightful tales of you, but perhaps what you have done here will help sway them. Give them something else to believe.”

Anders stared at her, faintly aghast. Why were so many people determined to turn him into something he wasn’t?

“That’s... what I just did, that wasn’t - I mean, I didn’t heal them for that reason!” Anders spluttered. “I did it because I’m a healer, it’s just what I _do_!”

“And the tales of your compassion and what you have done here will spread, Herald,” she said, still smiling beatifically. “They will speak of how the Herald selflessly gave of himself to heal the refugees - both mages and templars alike. It will do much to help bring peace to these people.” She tilted his head upon one side. “That _is_ what you wanted, was it not?”

Her brown eyes seemed to pierce him right through to his soul. “Yes,” he found himself whispering. “That’s all I ever wanted. That’s why I’m here.”

“Maker bless you, child,” she said gently. “The people need hope. They will listen to your rallying call as they will listen to no other.”

She turned and began to lead him back towards where Cassandra, Cullen and Varric were waiting. “I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana with the names of those in the Chantry who would be amenable to a meeting,” she said. “It is not much, but I will do whatever I can.”

***

They arrived back at Haven to find a veritable riot outside the very doors of the Chantry. A crowd of mages were facing off against templars. Cullen ran forward to deal with it, placing himself between the two sides and facing down one of the templars; from his position on horseback at the edge of the crowd, Anders could distantly hear the Commander and the templar’s voices.

“Knight-Captain!” protested one templar.

“That is _not_ my title any more!” snapped Cullen angrily. “We are _not_ templars any longer, we are _all_ part of the Inquisition!”

Anders spotted the figure of Chancellor Roderick advancing on Cullen, gesticulating at the Commander. The blond apostate swung down out of the saddle as Varric joined him.

“That looks like trouble,” Anders muttered to the dwarf.

“Then best you keep out of it, Blondie,” suggested Varric. “Let the commander worry about the troops. You’ve got bigger things to worry about... Herald.”

“Maker, not you too, Varric,” Anders groaned. “I’m relying on you to keep me grounded. I never asked for any of this! I’m not the herald of Andraste - I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I don’t know how to break it to you, Blondie,” said Varric, “But that’s how all the best stories start.”

“Oh no. You are _not_ turning me into the hero of yet another of your stories, Varric!” growled Anders as he stalked away towards the Chantry where Cullen had succeeded in dispersing the crowd.

“Hey, who said anything about being the _hero_?” Varric called after him teasingly, and laughed as Anders held up the middle finger of his left hand as he walked away, not looking back.

***

Val Royeaux had been a disaster. Anders had known it would be from the moment Leliana’s agent ran up to them at the entrance to the city to warn them of the templars gathered there. Cassandra had ordered him to hang back and say nothing, and Anders had tried to follow her directions as far as he was able. He had to remember that he wasn’t Anders to these people. He was just Trevelyan of Ostwick here, who had never been to Kirkwall. Never set foot outside his Circle until it was disbanded. It wasn’t Trevelyan of Ostwick who had escaped the Circle seven times.

It was harder to remember that when the Chantry Mother was hurling accusations at him; harder still when the templars made their move. It was little consolation that Cassandra looked as out of her depth as he felt when Lord Seeker Lucius turned upon her then marched his templars out of Val Royeaux. She had tried to reason with the Chantry mother but in vain; frustrated, she stalked back to where Anders, Varric and Solas waited.

“Useless!” she exclaimed. “We should return to Haven.”

They turned to leave and a woman stepped out of the shelter of the gateway to stop them.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona!” exclaimed the Seeker. “Is it safe for you to be here?”

“I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes,” the mage said with a small shrug. She turned towards Anders; too late, he realised he should have hung back out of sight when recognition dawned in her eyes. “I know you,” she said quietly, taking a step towards him.

“He is Trevelyan of Ostwick,” said Cassandra quickly. Fiona shook her head.

“Is that what you’re calling yourself these days?” she asked. “You’re Anders.”

Beside him, Varric cursed very softly; Anders was tempted to do likewise. Instead he affected a frown of incomprehension.

“Excuse me?” he asked. “I’m sorry?”

“You. You’re him. Anders, the mage who started this whole damned war,” said Fiona, stepping closer. “You’re the one who destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall.”

Anders shook his head slowly. “Sorry,” he said with a small shrug. “I’d never left the Circle in Ostwick until it was disbanded. Certainly never been to Kirkwall. I’m afraid you must be mistaken.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “Very well... _Trevelyan_. I overheard your argument with the Lord Seeker,” Fiona replied. “If it’s help with the breach that you seek, the mages could be of great use to you. You should come to Redcliffe. An alliance could help us both.”

Anders inclined his head. “The assistance of the mages would be welcome,” he said carefully.

He watched as she walked away. “She knows who I am,” he said quietly.

“She only suspects,” argued Cassandra. “She has no proof. As far as anyone knows, Anders died in Kirkwall at the hands of Hawke.”

“Maybe we need to start emphasising that story a little more, Seeker?” suggested Varric.

“That should be right up your street, Varric,” replied Anders. “Telling tall tales was always much more your forte than anyone else’s, after all.”

“Leave it to me, Blondie. I’ll give you the tragic martyr’s death you always wanted, immortalised lovingly with my pen,” promised Varric. Anders spun on his heel and glared at Varric.

“No. Not a martyr. Never that,” he said angrily. “Make it clear that Anders died in Kirkwall for the crime of murder. He was _mistaken_ , am I clear? He was blinded by his own singlemindedness. What he did was wrong and he died for it. Executed by the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Blondie....” said Varric, clearly troubled. Even Cassandra’s frown was one of concern.

“I mean it,” said Anders. “Don’t you understand? Anders has to be _dead_. I’m Trevelyan. They all need to believe that I’m Trevelyan. If any of them believe I’m Anders then it’ll destroy the Inquisition before it’s even started.” he stared at them in desperation, his hands curling into fists.

“I think we should move on,” said Solas quietly into the silence that followed Anders’ words as he patted Anders gently upon the shoulder. “It is time we returned to Haven.”

***

He was glad to be back in Haven. It was beginning to feel like a home to him of sorts. He had his own little wooden cabin, not far from the Chantry. Solas had a cabin next door; Vivienne de Fer, the First Enchanter, had come to join them a few days previously and she’d been given another cabin further along. Anders tried to avoid her as much as possible. She’d looked down her nose sneeringly when they were first introduced, dismissing him as being beneath her - this lowly mage from a disbanded Circle who happened to find himself lumbered with a mark on his hand that just happened to be the only thing they’d found that could close the rifts. She seemed to show far more interest in the mark than in him at first - for which he was grateful; he didn’t think there was any chance she recognised him, but he wasn’t certain. She kept to herself mostly, disdaining the “Ferelden mud and dog shit”.

There was something incongruous about the First Enchanter using such a vulgar word. Anders suspected that was precisely why she used it.

Within a short space of time he became certain the First Enchanter had seen through his cover story almost immediately, though he was still fairly certain she didn’t know exactly who he really was. To be on the safe side, Anders kept out of her way; in fact, he kept out of pretty much _everyone’s_ way, save Varric, Solas and occasionally Leliana. Varric he could trust not to let all the constant “Herald this” and “Herald that” go to his head. Solas was completely unconcerned with any of that, being more fascinated by the mark on Anders’ hand or discussing the Fade, about which he seemed to know a great deal. And Leliana didn’t speak much, but her office was a quiet haven away from the rest of the Inquisition camp, and whenever he snuck into her office she would merely regard him silently for a minute before turning back to her reports, leaving him to sink into one of the chairs she kept there and gather his thoughts in peace and quiet. She seemed to understand his need for companionable silence.

Leliana had insisted only on one rule about Anders’ visits; he was not allowed to bring his cat. Not long after moving in to the warm wooden cabin, Anders had sought out the inn and reclaimed Pounce. The landlord’s wife was sorry to see Pounce go but was delighted to discover his owner was none other than the Herald of Andraste. 

Anders had soon exchanged the ridiculous lilac pseudo-ceremonial tunic and pants for a far more practical thigh-length coat in dark blue with a hood. It had a short cape for the shoulders; Cassandra had been oddly irked that he’d persuaded Leliana to let him have the fallen feathers from her ravens and the inn landlady had cheerfully sewn them to the cape of his coat. Varric had simply laughed, and Cullen rolled his eyes the first time Anders had shown up to a war table meeting in the feathered coat and Pounce curled up in his hood.

He’d ridden to Redcliffe like that, the aging cat curled in his hood, his presence a warm comfort against the back of Anders’ neck. Cassandra had insisted on Varric and Solas accompanying them to talk to the mages; Anders got the distinct impression that Vivienne rubbed the Seeker up the wrong way almost as much as she did Anders. He was glad he didn’t have to put up with her pointed questions all the way to Redcliffe however.

They found the rebel mages in Redcliffe - and a former Grand Enchanter Fiona who not only didn’t recognise them but insisted she hadn’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.

“I don’t like this; something doesn’t feel quite right here,” said Varric.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Anders nervously.

“You and I both, Blondie,” said Varric.

“The free mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium,” said Fiona. Anders blinked.

“What?” he exclaimed. “But... that’s madness!”

“An alliance with Tevinter? Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?” said Cassandra in disbelief.

“I understand that you are afraid,” said Solas soothingly. “But you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter.”

“Broody would be losing his shit right about now,” Varric murmured to Anders.

“And then some,” agreed the blond apostate as he shook his head. “This is bad. This is very bad. We can’t afford to lose their aid - and to Tevinter, of all places!”

“Heads up, Blondie - looks like this is the one you need to talk to,” said Varric quietly as two men entered, both in Tevinter-styled clothing.

“Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius,” said Fiona as the older of the two men came to a halt in front of Anders.

“Oh yeah, Broody would _definitely_ be losing it right about now,” muttered Varric from behind Anders.

“You are the survivor, yes? The one from the Fade? Interesting,” said Alexius, staring up into Anders’ eyes thoughtfully. Anders stared back. He felt as though he were being inspected, like some interesting specimen pinned for the Magister’s idle curiosity, and he didn’t like it one little bit. His eyes narrowed as he stared the Magister down. 

“I am here for the mages, not for your curiosity,” he stated coolly. Alexius seemed a little taken aback, but then nodded as he stepped back.

“Right, to business!” he nodded. “I understand, of course!” He beckoned for Anders to follow as he stepped away. Anders glanced to Cassandra, then followed the Magister, wary.

Alexius took a seat at one of the tables in the tavern and gestured for Anders to join him. As he sat, Anders was aware of Cassandra coming to stand behind him.

Alexius introduced his son Felix before dismissing him to fetch a scribe. As Alexius turned back to Anders, they began to negotiate, but they had barely exchanged a dozen words before Felix reappeared, looking ill. 

“Felix? What-” began Alexius.

Anders caught the young man as he collapsed; without thinking, he extended his healing sense into the young man’s body to find the reason for his faint. What he found startled him; Felix appeared to be merely feigning to faint. What truly surprised Anders however was the contagion of the taint all through the young man’s body, and signs that contagion had been there for some time. How the young man were still living, much less capable of rational thought and comprehension, was beyond Anders.

“I’m sorry,” said Felix apologetically as he opened his eyes and got back to his feet slowly. He gave Anders a hesitant smile as he clutched Anders’ hand; the blond apostate felt the young man thrust a piece of paper into his hand before turning away.

Anders watched, bewildered, as Alexius hurried his son away back to the castle, calling Fiona to attend them.

“Strange,” said Varric quietly.

“You have no idea,” said Anders as he watched them go. He briefly considered telling Cassandra and the others what he had felt in those brief moments whilst Felix was in his arms, but decided against it. He looked down at the note in his hand.

“‘Come to the Chantry, you are in danger’,” he read aloud. “Sounds like something from one of your books, Varric,” he added absently.

“Hey!” protested Varric, but the others ignored him.

“Redcliffe castle held by a Tevinter magister?” said Cassandra slowly. “This cannot be permitted.”

“Quite,” said Anders, frowning. “There’s more to this than meets the eye though.”

“We go to the Chantry then?” said Cassandra, frowning.

“Well, unless anyone else has any better ideas?” replied Anders, glancing round. “I realise it could be a trap, but....”

“It’s a starting point,” replied Cassandra.

***

They walked into the Chantry to find a rift had opened there, and the place was full of demons, and a dark-skinned mage fighting them off frantically. 

“Not quite what I was expecting,” said Anders, then bit back a cry as the mark in his hand suddenly flared painfully.

The strange mage dispatched the two demons he’d been fighting, then turned to meet them.

“Good, you’re finally here! Now help me close this, would you?” The tone was cultured, the clothing Tevinter in style. Somewhere in the back of his mind - the part not preoccupied with the pain in his hand and the proximity of the rift and their immediate danger - Anders noted that the stranger was incredibly good looking, his grey eyes only the more striking for the dark kohl lining them. He was also ridiculously charming, and his smile quite dazzling.

Anders dragged his attention away from the stranger to stare at the rift as his mark pulsed a warning just before more demons erupted from the rift. “Keep them off me whilst I close this thing!” he shouted as a rage demon rose up before him. He threw out a fan of ice shards before himself frantically, freezing the demon in place before reversing his staff and shattering it with a spirit bolt. As the others fought to take down the other demons, Anders concentrated on the rift. Throwing up his hand, he let its energies blaze forth, feeling that by-now familiar draining feeling inside.

As the last demon died and the rift snapped closed, the stranger turned and stared at Anders.

“Fascinating! How does that work, exactly?” he asked, his voice full of curiosity. As Anders stared at him, the stranger laughed. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.”

“It’s... a little more complex than that,” replied Anders stiffly. “Who are you?” 

“Ah. Getting ahead of myself again, I see,” smiled the stranger as he took a step closer to Anders; the blond apostate was suddenly aware of the other man’s scent - a mix of cinnamon, other exotic spices, and something else. The stranger gave him another dazzling smile and then a small bow.

“Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Another Tevinter,” spat Cassandra. “Be cautious of this one.”

Anders deliberately ignored her, clenching his teeth together before he could snap back at her. 

“Suspicious friends you have here,” remarked Dorian, though his expression suggested her response wasn’t exactly unusual to the dark-skinned mage; Anders wondered just how long he’d been down south. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable - as I’m sure you can imagine,” he added, his gaze flicking back to Anders and a ghost of his earlier warm smile returning.

“Then... are _you_ the one who sent that note, and not Felix?” asked Anders slowly.

“I am,” nodded Dorian, the smile disappearing to be replaced by a sombre look. “Someone had to warn you, after all. Could hardly be Felix.” He sighed. “Look, you must know there’s danger. That should surely be obvious even without the note.”

“I’d gotten some idea, yes,” remarked Anders with a lopsided smile. “The demons and rifts were a fairly obvious clue.”

“Very true, very true,” nodded Dorian with a wry smile of his own. “But there’s more. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the rebel mages out from under you. As if by magic, yes?”

Anders nodded for him to go on.

“Which is exactly right,” continued Dorian. “To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“Preposterous!” exclaimed Cassandra. “Herald, you cannot possibly believe this wild story!”

“Not so preposterous as that, Seeker,” replied Anders slowly. “We’ve already noticed how the rifts themselves seem to distort time around themselves. Is it really so far-fetched to believe someone could find a way to do that deliberately?”

“Intriguing thought, Herald,” remarked Solas. “That is fascinating, if true... and almost certainly dangerous.”

“Very perceptive,” nodded Dorian approvingly, regarding Anders with a keen eye as he tilted his head a little to one side. “Not far-fetched at all, is it? You saw yourself how this rift twisted time around itself - and soon there’ll be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unravelling the world.”

“Why should we believe any of this?” demanded Cassandra. Dorian suddenly frowned angrily, as though frustrated with being questioned and disbelieved.

“I know what I’m talking about - I helped develop this magic,” he snapped, his grey eyes flashing. “When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work.” His eyes flicked back to Anders; as he realised the blond apostate was listening to him intently, a little of the anger seemed to drain from him. “What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it?” he went on, folding his arms then lifting his uppermost hand to gesture. “Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He didn’t do it for them,” interjected Felix as he stroke in from behind them, walking up until he stood level with Dorian.

“Took you long enough,” Dorian greeted him with a smirk. “Is he getting suspicious?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card,” replied Alexius with a shrug. “I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.”

Anders stared at Felix; he was burning with the urge to ask the magister’s son just how and when he’d been infected with the contagion, and just how on earth he’d managed to survive this long. Was this the impetus Alexius had needed to make his time magic theory work? But this was neither the time nor the place; Dorian and Felix were still talking. 

They both stepped closer to Anders as Felix began to describe the Venatori cult his father had become caught up within. The more Anders heard of them, the more worried and concerned he felt.

Dorian departed shortly afterwards with a promise of aid when needed. Felix’s father, it appeared, was unaware of his former apprentice’s presence, and both Dorian and Felix wanted to keep it that way.

“I must go too, Herald. My father will grow suspicious if I am gone too long,” said Felix.

Anders nodded. “Understood. Send word to me if you can - keep me appraised of what goes on.”

“I’ll do my best,” nodded Felix. As he turned to go, Anders on impulse reached out and caught Felix by the wrist. As the young man glanced back, startled, Anders leaned in closer.

“I know you carry the taint in your blood,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how it is that you are still alive, but if there is anything I can do to help...?”

“Help?” asked Felix. He frowned, then smiled sadly. “Are you a healer then?” He shook his head. “My father has had me seen by all the best healers in Tevinter. There’s nothing anyone can do - only delay the inevitable. But... I thank you.”

Anders stared into Felix’s eyes. He could feel the aching joints, the inflammation within; the sluggishness of the young man’s blood that should run fast and vital through his veins; he lent a little into his magic, sending healing through his body, easing the stiffness and drawing toxins from his blood. He could do nothing for the taint, but he could at least ease a little its effects and damage upon the young man’s body.

He knew Felix could feel the effects of his magic as the young man’s eyes widened. “ _Spirit_ healer,” Anders corrected him. “I cannot take away the taint, but perhaps I have eased your discomfort a little.”

Felix grasped his arm in thanks. “I will send word when I can. Come swiftly when I do.”

“I will,” agreed Anders.

***

“Herald, you surely do not mean to trust these Tevinters?” exclaimed Cassandra as they returned to their horses.

“And why not?” Anders asked. “Because they are mages?” He glanced over at her with a challenge in his eyes.

“Because they would turn on one another - do they really mean us to believe his son, his apprentice - that they would turn upon the father?” she insisted. “What is to say they would not also turn on us?”

“Cassandra, I would far rather have someone on my side because they realise they have been wrong, than because they feel they are obliged to out of misguided loyalty,” said Anders wearily as he swung into his saddle.

“My loyalty to you is not misguided,” she replied stiffly.

“Only because you first were prepared to admit you were wrong,” he replied, glancing back at her. “Otherwise I’d either still be in that cell or dead. Wouldn’t I?”

“I....” Her voice trailed off slowly. “And... Cullen?” she added, more quietly.

“Cullen and I have... history together,” replied Anders softly. “He already knows what manner of man I am.” He glanced away. “More to the point... I know what manner of man _he_ is. And we both know it.”

He kicked his horse into a trot, and the others were forced to spur their mounts on to keep up.

***

There was a messenger waiting outside Anders’ tent when they got back to the Inquisition encampment in the Hinterlands. Anders dismounted, handing his horse over to one of the scout’s grooms, and stared at the soldier who seemed to be in mercenary garb. He frowned thoughtfully. The man must be safe, or Harding wouldn’t have let him through; Lace Harding was nothing if not thorough, and in the brief time he’d gotten to know her, he’d come to trust her judgement. He nodded to the man and gestured for him to enter the tent as he slowly stripped off his riding gloves.

Anders slipped off his hooded tunic carefully; Pounce was asleep in the hood, and he didn’t want to disturb the elderly cat. He laid the tunic on his camp bed then turned to the man.

“We got word of Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast,” the man said without preamble. “My company commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”

“And you are...?” said Anders slowly.

“Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi,” the man replied, then suddenly grinned. “But you can call me Krem.”

“Krem, huh?” said Anders as he walked over to the table and reached for a bottle of wine. “Are you going back to Iron Bull straight away?”

“It’s been a bit of a journey to get here,” conceded Krem with a shrug and a smile.

“Blondie, you’re going to have to talk to the Seeker, she’s-” said Varric as he wandered into the tent. His head was down, focusing on his hands as he tugged off his gloves until Anders cleared his throat. “Oh! Was I interrupting something?”

“Varric, this is Krem, lieutenant of Bull’s Chargers. He’s going to be staying overnight and then we’re off to the Sword Coast with him tomorrow to meet his boss,” said Anders.

“Oh ho,” grinned Varric. “Does Cassandra know?”

“No,” replied Anders. “I’m sure it will thoroughly annoy her.”

“Want me to break the good news?” Varric’s grin got even wider.

“Please do,” Anders grinned back.

***

Cassandra was, as predicted, thoroughly annoyed at the news. By that point however, somehow the news had already spread and everyone knew they were off to the Storm Coast, and the Seeker knew only too well that protesting would be futile. That didn’t stop her going off on a long, extended rant at Anders, pacing furiously in his tent as he ate his evening meal with an air of unconcern until the pitch of her voice caused an aggrieved yowl from Pounce.

“Enough,” said Anders firmly, pushing his plate aside and standing. “You are upsetting my cat.”

“Your _cat??_ ” exclaimed Cassandra as she turned on her heel to find Anders rather closer behind her than she’d anticipated. She was forced to look up at him, and Anders was privately rather glad he was tall enough that the Seeker - who was not, by any means, a short woman - had to lean back a little to do so.

“I have full faith in Scout Harding’s abilities, Cassandra,” he said quietly, and was gratified to note that the use of her name did not go unnoted by the Seeker as her eyes widened a little. “Do you truly believe that she would allow a mercenary messenger to approach me without first knowing the full content of that message and who sent him? Or that she does not have a full and detailed knowledge of all the mercenary groups operating in the area and already have a pretty good idea of which ones are trustworthy and which are not? In short, Cassandra,” he added, taking a deliberate step closer into her personal space, “Do you not trust Leliana’s agent to _do her job?_ ”

“Herald, I... I apologise. I should have considered all of that for myself,” admitted Cassandra after a moment, her voice quieter.

Anders stared down at her, then smiled gently as he stepped back a little. “You’re tired, Cassandra. We all are. The events at Redcliffe were... unnerving and we’re still trying to process all this stuff about the Venatori. You had good intentions, but maybe you need to trust mine as well.”

“I... you are right, Herald,” said Cassandra quietly. “Forgive me.”

“It’s OK, Cassandra,” said Anders. “Go rest. You haven’t eaten yet. Have a good meal then get a good night’s sleep; I will need you tomorrow.”

“Of course, Herald,” she agreed as she took a step back. She inclined her head in a small bow then strode towards the exit.

“Cassandra,” Anders called out just before she could leave. She glanced back.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I know you’ll keep me safe.”

“Always, Herald,” she nodded. 

The door flap swung briefly after her exit before Varric ducked in.

“Nicely done, Blondie,” he said approvingly. “You’re beginning to get the hang of this Herald business.”

“Oh, don’t you start, Varric,” Anders groaned as he dropped back into his seat. He dropped his head into his hands and clenched his fingers into his hair.

“Oh, hey, what’s up now, Blondie?” said Varric quietly as he came to stand beside Anders’ chair; the blond mage felt his warm hand slowly rub soothing circles against his back. “This Inquisition business getting to you?”

“Varric, I don’t know what I’m doing,” Anders confessed. “Everyone looks at me and sees this - this ‘Herald of Andraste’ figure. And I’m just me - Anders. What do I know of things like this? Hawke was always our leader, not me! I keep just stumbling around, making wild guesses as to what I’m supposed to do, and everyone seems to think I’m this great leader who has everything figured out! What happens when they realise I’m a fraud, who hasn’t got the faintest clue?”

“Blondie, in my experience the only thing you need to have figured out is people - which from the smooth way you just handled her Royal Seeker-ness just now, something tells me you’ve got down just fine,” said Varric. “Just keep doing that, and the rest of it will follow. No-one expects you to have all the answers yet - that’s why you’ve got the Seeker, Chuckles, Curly, Josie, Leliana and all the rest around to help you.”

“And you,” added Anders quietly. Varric laughed.

“Blondie, if you’re expecting great pearls of wisdom from me, you’re asking the wrong guy. I’m just some hack with a quill and too much imagination; I don’t know anything about running an Inquisition or fighting a war,” laughed Varric.

“You’re my friend - and you also understand people,” said Anders quietly.

Varric patted his shoulder comfortingly. “Go get some rest, Blondie,” he said kindly. “It’s a long way to the coast.”

Anders nodded and sighed. After a moment he glanced sidelong up at Varric with a small smile. "I know Curly is Cullen," he said slowly. "Let me guess. Chuckles is... Solas?"

"Who else?" grinned Varric. Anders laughed.

"Varric, don't ever change," the blond apostate laughed.

"Never planning on it, Blondie," smiled Varric.


	5. Chapter 5

Anders stared at the Qunari mercenary as they headed back to Haven. 

“You like what you see, Boss?” asked the Bull; Anders felt his cheeks grow hot and he knew he was blushing. “Oh ho - did I hit too close to the truth there? It’s OK, you can be honest.” He grinned. “You wouldn’t be the first, won’t be the last.”

“I was just thinking that the last time I saw a Qunari as big as you, he was doing his best to kill my boyfriend and there was nothing I could do about it,” replied Anders.

“Oh?” said the Bull, frowning slightly. “I saw you with that staff of yours back there - looked to me like you’re a guy who could do plenty about something like that, even against a guy like me.”

Anders opened his mouth to answer but Cassandra glanced back over her shoulder at him. He swallowed hard. “It’s... a long story. You’re nothing like he was though.”

“Boss, I’m nothing like _anyone_ else you’ve ever seen before,” answered the Bull as he strode along beside Anders.

“You can say that again, Tiny,” remarked Varric. “I’m just glad you’re on our side now.”

“The Chargers are on the Inquisition payroll,” the Qunari nodded. “I go where you go, Boss.”

“That’s... rather reassuring,” said Anders quietly.

A scout approached Cassandra; she waved them back as she turned and walked with the scout a little way, staring at a report.

“So, I’m curious, what was a Qunari doing in Ostwick?” said the Bull quietly. 

“Pardon?” said Anders, staring at the Bull, who gave him a knowing smile.

“Ben-Hassrath, Boss, remember? I know full well your name’s not really Trevelyan. And you certainly never came from Ostwick.”

Anders suddenly had an inkling how a rabbit must feel when caught in the fox’s gaze; he stared at the Qunari mercenary, his blood running cold.

“You must be mistaken, Tiny, he’s-”

“No, Varric,” Anders said quietly. Something in his voice made the dwarf fall uncharacteristically silent. He stared up at the Iron Bull. “You know who I am,” he said.

The Iron Bull inclined his head. “I do. And for what it’s worth, it makes no difference to me if you call yourself Anders or Trevelyan. Or Blondie,” he added with a grin for Varric; the dwarf groaned. “The Chargers are for the Inquisition, and I’m your bodyguard for as long as you’ll have me. You don’t have to tell me everything; in fact you don’t have to tell me anything at all, though that would kind of make my job harder.” He grinned.

“That Qunari I mentioned. He was the Arishok,” Anders said. “And I couldn’t fight him because my _other_ boyfriend was sitting on me,” he added ruefully. He tried to ignore Varric’s groan.

“Your _other_ boyfriend?” said the Bull. “Well now. The Ben-Hassrath reports never mentioned _that_ , Boss. Interesting.” He grinned. “I think you and me are gonna get along just fine, Boss.” He glanced at where Cassandra was frowning at the report. “And you’re right; the old Arishok was nothing like me at all.”

“Oh?” said Anders.

The Iron Bull merely grinned at him.

“I don’t want to know,” Anders decided as he walked on towards the Seeker.

***

The missive Cassandra had been frowning at turned out to be a summons from Alexius. As they gathered around the table back in the meeting room in the Chantry, Cullen studied the note before handing it to Leliana. The arguments had started almost immediately they’d returned; Anders had felt his heart sink the moment he’d walked in and found Vivienne and Cullen arguing, and then Leliana had dragged him off to one side away from Bull to rake him over the coals about having taken on the Chargers before deciding that she could make use of the intelligence from the Ben-Hassrath and warned Anders that he should say nothing. They’d returned to the meeting table in time to hear Cullen and Vivienne arguing about going to Redcliffe.

“We only just got _back_ from Redcliffe!” Anders said. “Now he expects us to go running back there again at his beck and call?”

“There’s still time to approach the templars,” pointed out Cullen. “This business at Redcliffe all reeks of a trap.”

“No, we need the mages,” said Anders. “And I’m not going to leave them to the less than tender mercies of a Tevinter magister.”

“What’s this about a ‘vint magister, Boss?” said the Bull, frowning.

“And just who is this?” exclaimed Cullen, frowning.

“ _He_ is the Iron Bull,” Anders snapped. “He leads the Chargers.”

“Which makes me the Boss’s bodyguard,” said the Bull. “Seems to me the Boss could use someone looking out for his own interests.” He folded his arms and then stared pointedly at Cassandra, then Cullen.

“I’m going back to Redcliffe,” Anders decided.

“Wait, now hold on a minute!” exclaimed Cullen. “Didn’t you hear me when I said it could be a trap?”

“And you think we should just hand all those mages over to the Venatori?” replied Anders. “I’d rather have them on our side than theirs!”

“The Herald has a point, Commander,” Josephine pointed out.

“Yes, he does,” agreed Vivienne. “If we bring the mages back into the fold, we may yet have a chance of imposing some kind of order on this whole mess.” She gave a small, tight smile to Anders, and once again Anders had the nasty feeling she knew exactly who he was. It was easier to glance away and face Cullen’s angry look.

“So, we’re going to Redcliffe, Boss?” said the Bull. Anders glared challengingly at Cullen, who sighed then nodded.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” the Commander said as he glanced at the spymaster. “Leliana, a word?”

Anders watched as the others filed out of the meeting room then followed slowly.

“Boss, you OK?” said the Bull quietly. Anders pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll be fine,” he said as they walked towards the exit of the chantry. He was stopped by a large, heavy hand as Iron Bull turned him to face him.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” said the Qunari quietly. “Boss, what I said in there wasn’t for appearance’s sakes. In there, they’re all protecting their own backs and pushing you around for their own purposes; I’ve seen people like them do it a thousand times. You’ve got something they need, and they’re all working out how to get their piece of you and get you to do what they want. There is no-one in that room who is on your side, Boss; they’re all on the Inquisition’s side, and as long as you give them what they want they’ll be happy, even if it doesn’t make _you_ happy. But no matter what, I got your back.”

“And you’re Ben-Hassrath,” Anders pointed out. “So whatever I tell you, they know, right?”

“Doesn’t work that way, Boss. The Inquisition business - yeah, sure, that stuff goes both ways between here and there and back again. But what I’m asking now is purely off the record, Boss. Just you and me.” Bull stared down at him. “So I’m asking you again, Boss - you OK?”

“I’m fine,” Anders insisted.

“If you say so, Boss,” said the Bull in a tone that said he very much didn’t believe him. “You ever decide that’s not the case any longer, I’m happy to listen.”

Anders nodded.

If only it were that simple.

***

Redcliffe turned out be a trap - and far more. 

Anders was still trying to process everything that had happened as they rode back. Hurled forward through time, he was still badly shaken by what he had seen happen to Varric, the Iron Bull, Cullen and Leliana. Each time he darted a glance at the Bull, he kept getting flashes of the version he’d seen of the Qunari a year in their future; tainted by red lyrium, and at the end, a bloodied corpse cast aside by a demon.

“Boss? You OK?”

Anders blinked. The Iron Bull was staring at him in concern.

“What? Oh. Yes; just tired,” he managed. “Just lost in thought. We need to get the mages back to Haven and settled.”

“You and I need to talk about that, Herald,” said Cullen, nudging his horse closer to Anders’.

“And we will when we get back to Haven, Commander - we _all_ will,” Anders replied. He was aware of the Iron Bull stepping in closer on the other side of him and took heart. “I’m not going to discuss it right here on the road - particularly when we’ll simply have to hash it out all over again when we get there.”

“An-” Cullen began, but got no further when Anders turned in his saddle to stare at him in alarm and the Commander checked himself in time before he could blurt the blond apostate’s name out. Anders caught the Commander’s gaze, and suddenly he was back there again, outside the cell door, staring at the red lyrium crystals growing out of the man’s flesh, the inhuman rage in the man’s eyes as he tried to claw his way towards Anders from the other side of his cell, the last vestiges of humanity gone and only this husk filled with bestial rage left of what had been the former templar. What had happened to Varric and the Iron Bull had not prepared him for the devastation the red lyrium had wrought on Cullen.

“...Blondie?”

“Boss? You OK?”

Someone’s hand was on his arm; he blinked, and Cullen was frowning at him, but this time in concern. “Herald? Are you ill?”

Anders glanced around; Varric, the Bull and Dorian were all staring at him - Varric and the Qunari clearly worried, but Dorian with a look of understanding.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” he faltered. 

“Perhaps we should make camp,” suggested Dorian quietly.

“I agree,” nodded Cullen. “It’s been a long day and the mages are on foot in any case. Wait here.” He dismounted and strode back towards the rest of the Inquisition forces, shouting orders.

Anders slid from his saddle and made his way over to a fallen log. It would take a while to set up camp.

“What’s wrong, Boss?” asked the Bull quietly. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost."

“Several, actually,” replied Anders. “Now I just need to make sure they don’t happen.”

***

The arguing started the moment they got back to Haven. Anders had entertained some small hope that they might at least let him have a bite to eat, maybe even wash the dirt of the road off, but he should have known better. At least Cullen didn’t _physically_ drag him into the chantry, but Anders suspected that was only due to the Bull’s presence. He did, at least, refrain from shouting until the whole council were present - at which point, though he was unsurprised to find both Vivienne and Solas approved of his actions, he was gratified to find both Josephine and Cassandra, of all people, arguing in his support.

Anders stood silently waiting until Cullen seemed to have finished saying anything of substance and seemed to have begun repeating himself, carefully and studiously staring at a point just a little over to the right past Cullen’s left ear. It was a trick he’d learned early on in the Circle, and it never failed to wind up the templars - specifically because there was nothing they could actually _do_ about it, which only annoyed them even more. It had always been particularly effective on Cullen, as he recalled, and he was quite gratified to learn it still seemed to work on him even now.

He waited a little longer until the silence told him everyone else was finally paying attention. Only then did he finally let his gaze meet that of Cullen.

“I went to Redcliffe to recruit the mages. You knew this. I’ve brought back the mages. So don’t act like having to suddenly find space, tents, rations and so forth for them is so completely unexpected.”

“But the _risk_ -” Cullen began again for what had to be the fourth time; Anders cut him off with a deliberate wave of his left hand; the mark flared briefly green, lighting up Cullen’s startled face and silencing him more effectively than anything Anders could have said. Anders closed his fist and lowered it.

“You have stated your concerns quite vociferously and repeatedly, Cullen,” he said quietly. “I think we all heard them the first three times. Unless you have something new to bring to the table?”

Cullen frowned, but said nothing.

“The sole purpose of the Herald’s mission was gain the mage’s aid, and that was accomplished,” stated Cassandra in a tone of finality into the silence that followed Anders’ words.

“The voice of pragmatism speaks! And here I was, just beginning to enjoy the circular arguments,” said Dorian as he stepped out into the torchlight. He shot Anders a knowing look, one eye flickering briefly - Maker, was the Tevinter mage _winking_ at him?? Dorian leaned casually against a wooden support column and raised an eyebrow at Anders as the blond mage schooled his expression into cool neutrality.

Cassandra turned to glare at him. “Closing the Breach is all that matters,” she snapped.

“Indeed,” said Anders quietly, casting a meaningful look at Cullen. “In the end, it’s the _only_ thing that matters - and the sooner we get it over with, the happier I’ll be.”

“We have other matters to consider also,” interjected Leliana. “These things you saw in this ‘dark future’ - the demon army, the assassination of Empress Celene.”

“Sounds like something a Tevinter cult would do,” said Dorian drily. “Orlais falls, the Imperium rises, chaos for everyone!” 

“One battle at a time,” said Cullen heavily. “It’s going to take time to organise our troops and the mage recruits. Let’s take this to the war room.”

“I’ll skip the war council,” drawled Dorian. “But I _would_ like to see this Breach up close, if you don’t mind?” His eyes were on Anders.

“Then... you’re staying?” Anders asked. He hadn’t managed to quite keep the relieved tone out of his voice; Cullen didn’t appear to notice, but from the way Dorian’s moustache twitched in a small, brief smirk, he knew the other mage had.

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” said Dorian. “The south is so charming and rustic, I adore it to little pieces.” The wink this time was quite unmistakable, and Anders felt his cheeks growing hot.

“I’m glad,” said Anders, and smiled. 

He was glad he was already blushing when Dorian smiled back.


	6. Chapter 6

Amassing and organising even a small army wasn’t something that could be done quickly; it would take time to orchestrate troop maneuvers, bivouac them, and arrange accommodation for the mages. It meant that for some of the council they now had a period of much-needed downtime; none appreciated this more than Anders.

Most of the council had been given accommodation of their own - individual small cabins that had been thrown up rapidly by Inquisition forces. Cassandra, Cullen and Blackwall insisted on staying in tents, just like the rest of the Inquisition foot soldiers; Cassandra and Cullen stated that they preferred to keep themselves on the same level and share the same privations as the troops they commanded, and Blackwall stated that he didn’t need anything more than a roof over his head and canvas would suffice him just fine.

Anders wasn’t sure what to make of Blackwall. The man claimed to be a Grey Warden, but Anders had known the moment he laid eyes on the man that there wasn’t a single drop of the taint in him. The man was a fraud, but Anders couldn’t fathom why. Still, revealing that he knew would open a whole can of worms Anders wasn’t prepared to deal with yet; Trevelyan of the Ostwick Circle would not know anything of Grey Warden matters.

The cabins belonging to the mages of the Council all stood close together - whether by design or accident, Anders wasn’t sure. Still, Solas had been a helpful and grounding presence from the start; he seemed to know a lot about the Fade, and Anders had worked out he was a _somniari_. Anders wished he could ask Solas about Feynriel, the half-elven mage Hawke and he had taken to the Dalish on Sundermount; he’d often wondered how the young _somniari_ had fared, and if anyone would know then surely it would be another _somniari_ \- particularly one as knowledgeable as Solas. But he hadn’t managed to come up with a way of working it into conversation yet; Solas had this way of giving you a knowing look that left you feeling silly and foolish for asking, and in any case Solas seemed to have about as much interest and curiosity about the Dalish as he did the Circles and insisted he himself was not Dalish. Anders wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that. 

Anders had the feeling that even though Solas knew the truth, Anders’ true identity made little difference to him. One human mage was much the same as another to the elven mage; he was interested in Anders because of his mark - though the fact that Anders was also a spirit healer also seemed to pique his interest, and they’d spent a lot of time discussing that aspect of Anders’ skills. It transpired that spirit healers were as rare amongst the Dalish as they were in the Circles - and for someone who claimed not to be Dalish himself, Solas certainly seemed to know an awful lot about them. Anders wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that either.

Anders wished he could just come clean about his identity and get it over with - at least amongst the inner circle members. Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, Solas, and Varric of course, all knew who he really was. As did Bull. Anders knew that he ought to be alarmed that the Ben-Hassrath knew exactly who he was, but he took comfort from the fact that evidently Bull didn’t know the _whole_ story. The fact he hadn’t known about his relationship with Fenris was actually comforting in a way - and evidently he had no idea about everything that happened in Kirkwall and after. 

He was unfailingly polite to Vivienne, as befitted someone who had only been a lowly mage in a fairly small Circle when speaking to the First Enchanter of the Val Royeaux Circle, even if he _was_ supposedly the Herald of Andraste. He had the feeling she didn’t believe that any more than he did, and he was pretty certain by now that she didn’t believe he was Trevelyan either. Why she hadn’t mentioned it, he had no idea; he had the nasty sneaking suspicion she was holding onto that knowledge for her own reasons. He couldn’t ignore the fact that she was one of the first people to throw in her allegiance with the Inquisition however.

As for the last mage in their little group - and the most recent newcomer - Anders had to admit he liked Dorian. Liked him a little too much, in fact. The Tevinter mage - an Altus, he’d learned; Dorian made the distinction quite early on when Anders had mistaken him for a magister, and the blond apostate had had the idea he’d had to make that distinction too often for comfort - reminded Anders an awful lot of how he had been when he’d finally managed to escape the Circle for good, in those heady days of freedom before the duties of the Grey Wardens started to drag him down. 

Before Justice.

He wanted to tell Dorian who he really was. The more time he spent in the Altus’ company, the more he had to guard his tongue lest he blurt it out in a careless moment. 

Dorian flirted with him at every opportunity. Then again, Dorian flirted with _everyone_ at every opportunity, though Anders had already noticed that with women, he was more reserved and courteous, using less innuendo than he did with men. Anders was pretty certain he knew which way Dorian swung. Anders liked watching Dorian flirt with Cullen; the Commander didn’t seem to know how to respond, going red and awkward as he rubbed the back of his neck and didn’t know where to look. Maker, the man was just so _easy_ to fluster like that; it seemed in some respects he hadn’t changed since he was a new recruit and Anders had flirted with him at every opportunity.

It was harder when Dorian flirted with Anders though. It would be so easy to flirt right back, and maybe it could have led to some fun between them (and by the Maker’s blue balls he could seriously have done with the relief that that kind of “fun” would have brought him); but then he would think of Hawke and Fenris, and... he just couldn’t. He couldn’t do that to them. He’d caught himself absently responding to Dorian’s flirting automatically a couple of times and then checked himself, shutting himself off, forcing himself back to neutral friendly politeness; and Dorian had gotten this odd little surprised look on his face before giving Anders an appraising look and then his own shutters had come down.

Anders hated having to do that, but it was for the best.

He missed Hawke. Sweet Andraste, did he miss him; he missed his touch, his voice, the feel of his beard lightly scratching Anders’ cheek as he kissed him. The smell of the man, engulfing him as Garrett hugged him from behind when he was working. It hurt to be apart from him, but he didn’t want Hawke caught up in this. He knew Cassandra still had agents out hunting for him.

Anders had thought of maybe writing to Hawke. Surely by now the news of the devastation at the Temple of Ashes would have spread even to the little remote town near their cabin; Hawke would think him dead. It hurt terribly to think that Hawke must be grieving for him; that he, Anders, would be that source of pain to the man he loved, but he told himself it was better this way.

He wondered if Fenris knew. Last he’d heard, the white-haired elf was chasing slavers on the Wounded Coast. He could be gone for days, weeks, even months between visiting towns to send them letters and letting them know he was still alive. Sometimes he would write from Starkhaven; he would pass on the news of the reforms Sebastian had enacted, knowing how much such news cheered Anders. Such letters would usually include a missive from the one-eyed Prince himself, urging Anders and Hawke to come stay in Starkhaven, under his protection; but Anders preferred their simple rustic life of freedom to the gilded cage of a royal palace. If Fenris were in Starkhaven he would know of Anders’ supposed death.

Dwelling on such thoughts was painful. Anders would retreat to his cabin and curl up on his bed with Pounce, hiding his tears in the old cat’s fur. Ser Pounce-a-lot was a great comfort to him, even if Leliana would glance at him askance when Anders brought him to a council meeting. Usually the old ginger tabby would be curled up in Anders’ hood, though sometimes Anders would carry him in his arms. But as winter drew on and snow blanketed the ground at Haven, Anders would increasingly leave him either in the warmth of his cabin or, on occasion, with the innkeeper’s wife, who was always delighted to have his company for an hour or two.

Solas was working with the mage recruits a lot, with assistance from Vivienne. They were working on a way to be able to focus and release power to Anders to augment the powers of the mark in his hand, in hopes they might be able to close the Breach in the sky that glowed a baleful green as it slowly whirled high above Haven and the mountains. Though it no longer spewed out rifts and demons, it still remained there: a silent menace, that Anders would have to deal with.

But until then his time was his own. He sparred with Dorian in a clear space set up on one of the slopes some distance from the encampment; Dorian’s style was quite different to Anders’ own. The Altus was a necromancer - the opposite to his skills, really, though they found common ground in Spirit and Elemental magic. The Tevinter style of fighting with the staff was also markedly different to the style Anders had learned whilst with the Wardens. Quite often they would spar with straight staves just to hone their hand-to-hand skills. Often Anders would glance around after one of their sessions to find they’d acquired quite the audience. Bull was always there; often Krem would join him. To Anders’ surprise, Cassandra often happened to be just dropping by at the exact moment they were mid-spar. 

That was where he was heading now in fact; he was running slightly late, as Solas had stopped him to discuss an obscure point of knowledge regarding healing spirits that Anders had frankly forgotten having studied during his time in Kinloch and was surprised he’d even managed to remember. By the time he extricated himself from the discussion with a promise to jot down a few notes for Solas later on what he could recall, he was a good quarter of an hour late to meet Dorian in the ring.

He arrived to find Dorian and Krem already hard at it with wooden staves, the Iron Bull and the rest of the Chargers clustered around the edge of the ring and watching avidly, calling encouragement to one or another of the two combatants. They broke off when Dorian spotted Anders and said something to Krem. They both came over to where Anders was stripping off his cloak and woolen tunic. The air was cold, the ground blanketed by snow, but Anders always found he built up a sweat during these sessions.

“At last!” exclaimed Dorian. “I had begun to think you had forsworn our session in favour of lingering in the warmth.” He grinned, and Anders felt an answering warmth deep down in his groin. He turned away to toss his tunic down atop his cloak and compose his face before he turned back. 

“Solas wanted a word - you know how he is,” he shrugged. Dorian shot him a sympathetic look.

“Hey Boss - how about you take on both the Vint and Krem?” suggested the Iron Bull.

“I do have a name you know, Bull,” said Dorian with a small frown. Bull ignored him, his eyes on Anders.

“How about it, Krem?” said Dorian.

“I’m game if he is,” said Krem, nodding his head at Anders as he stripped off his own outer tunic.

“Sure,” Anders found himself saying, and instantly wondered if he was going to regret it. But Dorian and Krem were both moving back out into the ring; he couldn’t back out now without seriously embarrassing himself in front of anyone. His pride would never live that down.

He strode out into the ring, twirling the wooden staff experimentally. “Rules?” he called out.

“Are we using magic? Hardly seems fair against Krem,” remarked Dorian.

“No magic,” Anders said firmly. “Staves only.”

“Staves it is then,” said Dorian. They eyed each other expectantly.

Anders settled onto the balls of his feet, stance light and relaxed. As Dorian and Krem moved to flank him, he began to spin his staff about his hands, passing it from one to the other in a complex weaving pattern he’d picked up long ago at Vigil’s Keep. Stroud had drilled it into him repeatedly until he’d gotten the hang of it, the Senior Warden insistent that the mages be as proficient with the staff as a weapon as they were with their magic; there might come a time when they ran out of mana and would depend on the staff for their lives. 

The onlookers began to shout as he moved to meet Krem’s attack; from the corner of his eye he saw Dorian’s eyes widen, impressed, as Anders shifted smoothly from spinning his staff to bring it up in a block against Krem’s attack, turning and spinning to jab at Krem’s midriff as the other man brought the end of his staff round to parry the block. They exchanged a flurry of blows, the wooden staves clacking loudly as they met, then met again. 

Anders sensed rather than saw Dorian’s attack moving in and he blocked it swiftly, parrying Krem’s next attack with the other end before spinning to reverse his jab and parry Dorian’s next attack with an upwards twist of his staff then jabbing the other end into Krem’s midriff before parrying Krem’s riposte.

The shouts from the onlookers intensified as they realised the Herald was more skilled than they’d thought; from the sounds of it, they were attracting a larger crowd now. Anders couldn’t spare a glance; both Dorian and Krem were pushing him hard in real earnest now. The first exchange of blows was as much to test each other’s mettle as anything else; they’d now settled into the serious fighting and Anders was hard-pressed to defend himself from two attackers at once. Krem came on with a flurry of attacks - short sharp jabs of his staff aimed at head then ribs then groin which Anders blocked with a series of spins back and forth over his forearm then following up by a long sidestep towards Krem with his hindmost foot which gave him the space needed to kick Krem square in the midriff, throwing him back a good six or seven feet as the breath left the mercenary’s body in a loud gasp; the maneuver elicited gasps and then loud applause from the onlookers. 

Anders didn’t bother wasting time watching Krem or responding to the crowd but was already turning to press the fight against Dorian with another spinning attack, feinting high then sweeping in low under Dorian’s parry to strike the Altus lightly on the ribs twice in quick succession. Dorian’s cry was more from alarm than any real pain, though Anders figured the Altus would probably have a couple of bruises later. He ducked away from Dorian’s follow-up attack, dropping into a quick tuck roll that brought him to his feet to swing his staff up as he took the fight back to Krem, gaining himself a couple of seconds or more away from Dorian. This time it was Krem who was hard-pressed to defend himself from Anders’ lightning-fast attacks until Krem suddenly ducked and span on one foot, the other lashing out for Anders’ head, and the blond apostate failed to bring his staff up in time to block it. He tried to lean away from the kick; Krem’s foot caught him only a glancing blow to the side of his head; it was enough to cause him to stagger back a step and drop to one knee as he brought his staff around to block Krem’s follow-up attack. 

He nearly didn’t see Dorian’s swing until it was almost too late; his head was ringing slightly from Krem’s kick and he was having a little difficulty focusing his eyes. He heard rather than saw the end of the staff descending towards his head even as Krem’s staff struck his; and for a moment his mind went blank as he lifted his free hand as though to ward off the attack. He turned his head away and pressed two fingers to his temple as he closed his eyes and reflexively unleashed a spirit blast without thinking. There was a bright flash, and then Anders was looking around in dull amazement as the crowd of onlookers erupted into a loud roar of approval. Dorian and Krem were getting slowly to their feet some distance away from him where they’d been thrown by the force of his spirit blast, and Bull was on his feet, bellowing “Desino!” as Cullen strode across the ring towards him.

Anders glanced up warily at Cullen as the former templar extended a hand to him, but all he read in Cullen’s warm brown eyes was a look of concern mingled with respect. Wordlessly, Anders allowed the Commander to pull him to his feet; he was glad of Cullen’s strong arm supporting as he staggered slightly. The blow to his head was making him dizzy; his head was aching and he felt a little queasy.

“Are you alright?” asked Cullen quietly.

“I’ll be fine - just a little dizzy,” he replied carefully.

“Maker, where’d you learn to fight like that?” asked the Commander. Anders merely grinned tiredly as Krem and Dorian came over, the Bull a couple of steps behind, carrying Anders’ tunic and cloak. Anders was still hot and sweating from the fight, but he nodded thanks to the Bull as he took the cloak and pulled it on. The crowd were still roaring their approval and excitement so that Anders could barely hear Cullen. He turned to Krem and Dorian.

“I’m sorry; I know we said no magic,” he began, but Dorian waved the apology away.

“I’m only glad your reflexes were that sharp! I couldn’t pull my attack in time after you went down from Krem’s kick; I was certain I was about to get a bollocking from the Commander for laying out the Herald flat,” the Altus answered.

“ _Malum_ , Herald, are you alright?” said Krem worriedly.

“Ah, don’t sweat it Krem - he knocked you two flat on your backs,” the Iron Bull pointed out. “He’s upright and capable of talking.”

“I think you’re done sparring for today, Herald,” said Cullen. “You’ve put on quite the impressive display, I must say.”

“I think the Boss has had enough for today,” nodded Bull. 

Krem held his hand out to Anders. “Good fight, Boss. I’m up for a rematch any time you feel up to it.” He grinned as Anders took his hand and shook it.

Dorian patted him on the shoulder. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Trevelyan,” he said. “Thank you for an excellent work out - I’d take some elfroot for that headache if I were you though.” He smiled and gave Anders a wink before sauntering off in the direction of his cabin.

Anders heard Cassandra bellowing at the crowd to disperse now the show was over, and he blinked. “Did _everyone_ turn out to watch?” he wondered as he and Cullen turned to leave the ring, the Iron Bull dropping alongside to walk with them. Anders was glad of Cullen’s hand still supporting him; he was feeling slightly lightheaded and dizzy still.

“Not quite everyone,” said Cullen. “But certainly a big crowd, and doubtless word will spread.”

“Is that a good thing?” asked Anders warily. Cullen smiled.

“You’ve given a very effective demonstration of your abilities and shown that even without magic you’re a formidable opponent,” replied Cullen. “You’ll have earned the respect of a lot of the men through that little display, and that will be worth a great deal, believe me.”

“There’ll be some who wonder where a mage from Ostwick learned to fight like that though,” remarked Bull.

“True,” Cullen agreed soberly, then shot the Bull a steady, evaluating look. “There’ll be questions. We’ll have to be on the look-out for anyone getting too curious.” They’d arrived back at Anders’ cabin; Anders took his tunic back from the Iron Bull with a nod of thanks. He paused in the doorway of his cabin.

“Cullen... this charade of being Trevelyan. How long will we have to keep it up?” he asked. Cullen rocked back on his heels, startled, then shot a glance at the Iron Bull. Anders sighed. “Cullen, he already knows.”

“Ben-Hassrath, remember?” Bull grinned.

“Maker, how could I forget?” muttered Cullen. “Still, you should keep your voice down, Anders. We don’t want just anyone finding out.”

“I hate this deception,” sighed Anders. “Having to guard what I say and do at all times.”

“Believe me, it’s safer this way,” said Cullen. “Too many of our allies would rethink their position in relation to the Inquisition if your true identity were to be more widely known.”

“Can’t we at least come clean to the inner circle?” Anders asked softly. “Most of them already know anyway. And I’m certain Vivienne knows.”

Cullen fixed him with a thoughtful look. “I know it must chafe, having to hide behind a false identity, but it really _is_ safer this way. Dorian is a Tevinter magister and we still don’t know for certain we can trust him.”

“Altus,” replied Anders.

“I beg your pardon?” said Cullen with a frown.

“Altus, not magister,” Anders clarified. “There’s a difference. All magisters are alti, but not every altus is a magister. Dorian’s not a magister.”

“Huh,” grunted Cullen. “No matter; altus or magister, we have yet to see absolute proof he can be trusted.”

“He saved my life and brought us both back in time to deal with Alexius,” replied Anders steadily.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We prefer to keep it a secret for now. I’d trust Blackwall over Dorian any day.”

“I wouldn’t,” Anders shot back without thinking. The Iron Bull shot him a look, but Cullen merely sighed.

“He’s a Grey Warden, but he’s still an unknown,” the Commander conceded. 

Anders suddenly felt very tired and dizzy. He leaned against the door frame and wished Cullen would go away so he could just go inside and collapse on his bed. He just wanted to take some elfroot then pass out on his bed for a few hours. 

Something must have shown on his face. “Cullen, the Boss is tired,” the Bull interjected suddenly. “We should go and let him get some rest.”

“Oh, forgive me, of course,” said Cullen, startled. “How _are_ you feeling, Anders?”

“I’ll be alright,” he replied, summoning a tired smile. “I’ll just-”

He broke off as he saw Solas heading over towards them and felt his heart sink; he managed to keep a neutral expression on his face as Solas stopped just beside Cullen. The elven mage nodded politely to Cullen.

“Glad to catch you both together, Commander, Herald,” he said without preamble. “I believe the mages are now ready to assist with the attempt to seal the Breach.”

Anders suddenly felt a ball of dread knot his guts. “Now?” he managed to get out.

“As soon as you are ready,” replied Solas. Cullen glanced up at Anders, worried. 

Anders sighed inwardly, but nodded his head. “Give me one hour,” he replied. Solas inclined his head in acknowledgement then headed back in the direction of his own cabin.

“Herald...” said Cullen quietly.

“One hour,” repeated Anders as he stepped back and closed the door of his cabin. He leaned on it and drew a long slow breath then exhaled.

So much for a rest.


	7. Chapter 7

He wanted to sleep; Maker, his head was aching and he felt sick and dizzy. He knew he had concussion; the last thing he should be doing was attempting to co-ordinate the magic from a large group of mages through the mark in his hand and wielding that amount of raw power in an attempt to do _anything_ , much less close the Breach. He remembered what had happened the first time he tried to close it and how he’d passed out afterwards.

He took a couple of steps into the room then stopped as he felt dizzy again. He swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to throw up; after a moment he was able to make it to his desk where he knew he had a couple of elfroot potions. He unearthed them from the drift of papers, notes he’d jotted down after discussions with Solas and Dorian, and downed one swiftly before staggering to his bed and collapsing onto it to wait for it to take effect so he could concentrate enough to try a little healing.

He stared at the ceiling, wondering what would happen. Supposing he managed to close the Breach - what then? Would the Inquisition have any further use for him, or would he find himself being strung up to hang, or worse - Tranquility? He shuddered at the thought.

Maybe he was getting ahead of himself though. He might not even survive this attempt to close the Breach; simply sealing it before had knocked him for six. 

He got up and managed to get to the desk, dropping into the chair and drawing ink, quill and a clean piece of paper to himself.

He frowned, trying to concentrate past the aching of his head, then carefully wrote out two letters; one for Hawke, and one for Fenris, and then he returned to the bed and sprawled upon it, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

The elfroot began to take effect and he quietly groaned in relief as the pounding in his head and the dizziness receded a bit. He slid his fingers into his hair and tugged the hair-tie loose, then pressed his fingertips lightly against his skull as he channelled a little healing to relieve the nausea and the lingering ache. He let his hands fall to the pillow either side of his head as he felt his eyes drifting closed; suddenly very tired. He felt Pounce pad slowly up the bed to curl up under his left arm, purring; the sound was comforting.

He must have slipped into a light doze; he was startled awake by a knock at the door. He sat up, disoriented for a minute, then got to his feet and crossed to the door, pulling it open.

“You OK Boss?” asked the Iron Bull. “You look kind of pale.”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Anders, stifling a yawn with his hand. “Give me just a moment; I’ll be right out.”

“You took a knock to the head; are you sure you want to do this now?” asked the Bull. “I can go tell Solas and the Commander that you need to rest.”

“No,” replied Anders, shaking his head. “I want to get this over with.” he turned back into the cabin, leaving the door open as he pulled on a leather jerkin then grabbed the hooded tunic. Pounce sat up and gave an interrogative “mew?”.

“No, Pounce, you can’t come with me this time,” he said as he pulled it on. “You stay here where it’s warm.” He pulled the warm cloak back on then reached for his staff.

“OK, let’s get this over and done with,” he said. 

They headed towards the chantry, where Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian and Vivienne were waiting for them; Solas was already at the ruins of what had been the Temple of Ashes with the recruited mages. Anders was glad to see Varric there as well; he headed over towards the dwarf.

“Heya Blondie; all ready?” Varric asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” replied Anders, then dropped his voice. “There are two letters on my desk; if something happens to me, would you make sure they get delivered?”

Varric stared at him. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed, nodding. “Blondie, are you alright? You don’t look so good. Maybe we should talk to Curly and Chuckles, tell them to put it off for a day or two?”

“No,” replied Anders. “I’d rather just get on with it.”

“Are we ready then?” called Cullen. “Trevelyan?” It took Anders a moment to realise Cullen was addressing him.

“Uh, yes,” he replied. “Well, as I’ll ever be.”

They headed off together towards the ruins; as they went, Anders managed to elicit a further promise from Varric that he’d make sure Pounce was taken care of if the worst came to pass. The dwarf seemed to grow more and more worried as they headed towards the ruins, though thankfully he chose to keep his worries to himself. Anders wasn’t sure he could have handled too many questions. His head was starting to ache a little again, and as they drew closer to what had once been the Temple of Ashes, the mark in the palm of Anders’ hand began to pulse painfully in time to the throbbing of his head.

The mages were lined up in two long rows, along what had perhaps been staggered raised galleries before the temple’s destruction; Solas stood in the empty space near the base of the rift. As Anders and Cassandra walked to meet him, the mark in Anders’ palm erupted into green flame as he held it up; Solas turned and eyed it, then glanced to Anders, who merely nodded his readiness before striding a few paces forward alone. He stared up at the rift, and drew a deep breath.

Behind him, Cassandra’s voice rang out. “Mages!” she called, drawing their attention.

“Focus past the Herald!” Solas ordered. “Let his will draw from you!”

Anders unslung his staff and braced himself against it as he lifted his hand, turning his palm towards the rift as he slowly walked forward, the mark blazing even brighter. Suddenly he felt it: the mana of the serried ranks of mages behind him, opened up and channelled towards him. Without thinking, he found himself drawing on it, channelling it through him and the mark in his hand as he hurled the force of the mark’s energies towards the Breach. A beam of bright green actinic light shot from the mark to strike the rift, and it answered with a corruscating spray of lightning energies of its own. Anders gritted his teeth as the power burned through him, the warring energies dancing across his skin and intensifying with every slow, halting step he took towards the rift, forcing the power into the void to turn it, close it, seal it - just as he had with the smaller ones only much, much harder, the energies so much more powerful.

He could feel it starting to respond, the energies twisting and turning, writhing within his grasp, and then he felt it close just a split second before the released energies abruptly exploded outwards, snapping back through him and outwards. He tried to scream as the energy whiplashed through him but nothing came as his vision whited out and he felt himself falling.

He found himself lying on his back, blinking dazedly up into Cassandra’s face as Cullen, Dorian, Vivienne and Solas gathered around him. The Seeker had her arm around his shoulders; as he opened his eyes, she smiled down at him in relief. “You did it!” she exclaimed.

“I did?” he said. But looking up into the sky he could see for himself it was true; where the Breach had hung like some vast scar across the sky, now there was only the swirl of clouds, harmless and benign.

As Cassandra helped him to his feet, cheers erupted from the gathered Inquisition troops, and from the mages as they pulled themselves to their feet.

Anders glanced apprehensively at Cullen, but the Commander was smiling warmly, as was Cassandra. He dared to hope that perhaps he might make it out of this alive after all.

***

There were celebrations in Haven that night; there was feasting and dancing around the camp fires, with the smell of roasting meats and good food drifting across the town along with the strains of music and singing.

Anders stood outside the chantry and looked down upon the town and encampment, watching. He could hear Cassandra’s footsteps crunching in the crisp, freshly-fallen snow as she approached him.

“Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm,” she reported without preamble as she came to stand beside him. “The Breach is sealed. We’ve reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was a victory.”

“So you still have a need for me yet then?” said Anders quietly. “I need not fear to feel a noose about my throat for a little while longer, hmm?”

She gave him a sharp look. “Did you think we would execute you the moment it was done?” she asked, frowning.

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes,” replied Anders.

“Dismiss it then,” she said. “The Inquisition has need of you still, and you have a place here now. Whatever you may have done before, you are now the Herald of Andraste.” 

“Do you believe that?” asked Anders quietly. She stared at him, measuringly, then nodded.

“I do,” she said simply.

Anders turned and stared out across the town, stunned, uncertain what to say to that.

“Word of your heroism has spread,” she went on. He shook his head.

“I couldn’t have done it alone,” he argued. “Not without the mages - and not without your efforts, and those of Cullen, Solas, Dorian and the others to secure their aid.” He shook his head. “Luck put me at the centre.”

“A strange kind of luck,” she replied, frowning slightly. “I’m not sure if we need more or less. But you’re right. This was a victory of alliance, one of the few in recent memory.” She glanced out across the town. “With the Breach closed, that alliance will need new focus.”

An alarm bell in the town suddenly started to ring; they could see figures milling around the gate in the wooden palisade.

“That’s trouble,” said Anders. “Come on, we’d best go see what’s happening.”

***

“Forces approaching - to arms!” called Cullen as they approached. Soldiers were running around scrambling to close the gates and man the barricades as townspeople fled screaming.

“Cullen?” called Cassandra.

“One watchguard reporting,” replied the Commander as he turned towards them. “It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”

“Under what banner?” asked Josephine; Anders blinked - he hadn’t seen her join them. He stared around; as they’d run through the encampment to get to the gates, quite a sizeable number of people had joined them. The Herald’s dash through the camp had drawn followers; many of the mages they’d brought back from Redcliffe, quite a number of the soldiers who’d watched his sparring match with Krem and Dorian, and quite a few of the Chargers with their commander, the Iron Bull along with Dorian, to Anders’ surprise; as the Tevinter mage slipped through the crowd to come and stand alongside them, he gave Anders a nod, and Anders nodded back, glad of his presence.

“None,” replied Cullen tersely.

“None?” exclaimed Josephine, surprised.

There was a sudden hammering at the door, and then a desperate voice called, “I can’t come in unless you open!”

“Open the gates!” Cullen ordered; he ran alongside Anders, drawing his sword as they sprang out to find a young man standing there, facing them. His clothing was mismatched; from beneath a ludicrously overlarge hat with a wide floppy brim, his almost colourless eyes stared at them.

“I’m Cole,” the young man said. “I came here to warn you, to help. People are coming to hurt you.” He stepped closer to Anders, one hand coming up to lightly brush the front of the blond apostate’s tunic. “You probably already know.”

Anders jerked away. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Cole stepped closer and brushed a forefinger down the front of Anders’ tunic, almost as though to try and reassure him. His voice dropped. “The templars come to kill you,” he said quietly.

An icy shard of fear struck deep into Anders; for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“The templars?” exclaimed Cullen as he strode forward; Cole flinched away. “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking us blindly?” He held his sword defensively between Anders and the strange young man.

“The red templars went to the Elder One,” answered Cole. “You know him?” He leaned in towards Anders. “He knows you. You took his mages.” He turned and pointed up to the ridge along the skyline where countless torches could be seen in the dusk. “There.”

As he spoke, a man in red armour stepped up onto the ridge, next to a tall, strange, eldritch figure.

“I know that man!” exclaimed Cullen. “But this Elder One....”

Anders stared at the figure, his mind blank with shock. He knew that figure. He had heard its voice in his mind, long ago; remembered all too well how it had whispered to him until he had thought he was going mad.

He also remembered Hawke slaying that figure. Remembered.

“Corypheus,” he whispered, horrified. “But... _how_? It _can’t_ be...!”

“He’s very angry that you took his mages,” said Cole quietly.

“You _know_ that creature?” exclaimed Cullen.

“Get everyone inside,” said Anders. “Now. I’ll explain later - just get everyone inside now!” He turned to the Commander. “Cullen, give me a plan! Anything!”

“Haven is no fortress,” replied Cullen. “If we are to withstand this monster, then we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force, give it everything we’ve got.”

“The catapults,” said Anders. Cullen nodded.

“Mages! You - you have sanction to engage them!” he called. “That is Samson. He will not make it easy!” He turned to the soldiers; more troops were massing around the gates. “Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! _For all of us!_ ”

Anders’ later memories of that fight were dim. He remembered fighting alongside Dorian and the Bull against templars whose eyes glowed red, strange red crystals growing over their bodies and armour - red lyrium, like that which had covered Cullen in that horrifying future. The red templars fought like demons; it was a nightmarish experience.

He remembered their catapults firing; remembered the avalanche that hurtled down the mountainside to block the path of the oncoming army.

He remembered the dragon; how at the moment they thought they had victory in their grasp, suddenly there was a roar of hellfire and everything was screaming, the smell of burning flesh, terror and fear. A frenzied retreat to the chantry, the only building in the whole town that might hold a chance of holding against that beast; fighting off red templars every step of the way as the dragon swooped overhead. Little by little, they yielded up the town, herding frightened people towards the chantry as Haven began to burn.

Remembered feeling the last of his mana trickling away as he tried to keep people on their feet, keep running; one more spell, one more breath, one more step.

The Chancellor of the Chantry, wounded. Cullen, his face pale. “Herald, our position is...not good.” 

“I have seen an archdemon,” said Cole. “I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

An archdemon. Anders’ heart sank.

“I don’t care what it looks like - it’s cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven!”

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald,” said Cole.

“Of course he does,” said Anders quietly. “That’s why I’m going back out there.” He hadn’t realised until he said the words, but they felt right. Corypheus should be dead. He wasn’t. They had unfinished business.

“He wants to kill you,” said Cole. “No-one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like...!” exclaimed Cullen, staring at Cole, then shook his head and turned to Anders. “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining catapults and trebuchets, make one last slide.”

“We’re overrun,” Anders pointed out. “To bury them, we’d have to bury us too.”

“We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that chance,” the Commander answered.

Cole stared back into the Chantry, then at the Chancellor. “He can help. The path. He wants to show you, before he dies. Won’t be long now.”

“There is a path,” Chancellor Roderick nodded. “Many wouldn’t know it, unless you’d made the Summer Pilgrimage, as I have. The people _can_ escape. She must have shown me... Andraste must have shown me, so I could... tell you.” Cole helped the old man to his feet; there was a growing, spreading bloody stain on the old man’s robes. Anders stared at it. His mana was slowly returning now they weren’t running and fighting for their lives, but not quickly enough to save the Chancellor; he knew the most he could do would be to prolong the inevitable.

Cullen was staring at him; as Anders met his gaze, the Commander shook his head, and Anders knew he’d come to the same conclusion. 

He’d sent them away. All of them, away. A handful of soldiers had remained, along with the Iron Bull, Dorian and Cassandra, to help him load the trebuchets and turn them.

Scarcely had the last one been turned, than Anders glanced up in time to see the archdemon whirling around in the sky to bear down on them.

“All of you, get out of here, now!” he ordered them. “ _Move!_ ” They turned and ran towards the Chantry; he saw Dorian stumble, Cassandra pulling him back to his feet; the Bull holding the doors open as he bellowed at the soldiers to shift their arses; Dorian and Cassandra making it safely inside as Anders glanced over his shoulder.

There was fire, red lightning; a force blast that knocked Anders off his feet and threw him several yards. He lay stunned for a moment before he managed to slowly get up, rubbing the back of his head where it had hit the ground. He glanced around and saw Corypheus walking towards him.

He scrambled to his feet and felt for his staff and realised he must have lost it when the dragon hit. He backed away from the Elder One slowly, and then staggered to a halt as the archdemon swooped in to land directly behind him; it reared over him, and hot, fetid air reeking of sulphur and rot wafted over him, making him gag as it roared.

“ _Enough._ ”

Anders turned to face Corypheus, his blood like ice in his veins as he stared at the ancient Tevinter magister, terrified.

“You... you were dead, we _killed_ you!” he exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be here - you _can’t_ be here!” 

“ _Foolish child. You toy with forces beyond your ken. Think you that I am mortal? As **you** are?_ ” Corypheus chuckled quietly, a disquieting sound. “ _No more._ ”

“You died once,” said Anders, straightening. “I know who you are, and I’m not afraid.”

“ _Are you lying, or merely foolish?_ ” smiled Corypheus. “ _No matter. I have seen into your heart before, child; I know how full of fear and darkness you are. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be._ ” Corypheus fixed him with his stare. “ _Exalt the Elder One,_ ” he ordered. “ _The will that is Corypheus!_ ” 

The Elder One stalked slowly towards Anders. “ _You **will** kneel._ ” he lifted something in his left hand - some kind of orb that lit up with dark red energies. “ _I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins **now**._ ” 

Corypheus gestured with his right hand, a bolt of red lightning firing from his palm to engulf Anders’ left hand as the mark suddenly blazed with brilliant green light; Anders cried out as a jagged shard of pain tore down his arm from his hand. He felt his hand being drawn slowly towards that of Corypheus even as he clutched his wrist with his other hand and fought it.

“ _It is your fault, ‘Herald’,_ ” said Corypheus. “ _You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose._ ”

Anders took an unwilling step towards the creature, gritting his teeth against the pain racing down his arm from the palm of his hand.

“ _I do not know how you survived,_ ” continued Corypheus.” _But what marks you as ‘touched’, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens._ ”

The mark flared brighter and the pain sent Anders to his knees with a ragged scream. He doubled over, clutching his wrist as agony licked up his arm. He could hear the archdemon shifting around him, even as Corypheus continued.

“ _And you used the anchor to undo my work! The **gall**!_ ”

“Why...did the Divine die?” Anders managed to choke out from between gritted teeth, lifting his head in spite of the pain. “For this chaos?”

“ _The ‘chaos’ will empower me,_ ” answered Corypheus. “ _And ensure we no longer beg at the feet of the invisible._ ” The Elder One closed the distance between them, and then suddenly Anders felt bony, taloned fingers curl vice-like around his left wrist as he was hoisted into the air, feet kicking helplessly above the ground, forced to stare into the eyes of the monster as Corypheus glared at him. “ _I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more._ ”

Anders kicked his feet desperately, but he may as well have been held by stone. His arm was screaming in agony, between the pain of the mark and the burning in his arm and shoulder from being wrenched up by the wrist.   
“ _I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world,_ ” continued Corypheus. “ _Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was empty!_ ”

Abruptly, Corypheus hurled him away; Anders’ back struck something hard, and he cried out before collapsing to the ground. His back was spasming in pain now, and he felt dizzy and sick from the wrenching, burning sensation in his hand. He managed to lift his head with difficulty to stare at Corypheus as the Elder One approached. 

“ _The anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling. So be it; I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation - and the **god** \- it requires._ ”

Anders stared around himself blearily and realised that Corypheus had thrown him against one of the remaining catapults.

“ _And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die._ ”

“I don’t think so,” said Anders with a grunt as he managed to haul himself to his feet. He turned and kicked hard at the catapult lever then leapt down as it fired. He began to sprint away as fast as he could, as high above he heard the rumbling of an avalanche starting to tear its way down the mountainside towards the vulnerable town below.

He ran desperately towards the treeline; the snow overtook him as he ran, and within a few steps he was swept off his feet and all was a dull roar of white and cold. It stole his breath and then his consciousness, and then he was falling.

***

Consciousness returned slowly. He was lying on his back, hard-packed earth and stones beneath him. It was bitterly cold. He opened his eyes and stared around himself.

He seemed to have fallen into some kind of vaulted chamber; possibly part of the chantry’s cellars. The mark in his hand still flickered with fire, but it no longer burned as painfully; now, it was merely a dull throbbing ache in the palm of his hand.

As he slowly sat up, his back and shoulder protested painfully and he swore. He felt his shoulder with his right hand; thankfully nothing was broken or out of place - just badly wrenched. His mana had been restored somewhat whilst he was unconscious; he channelled a little healing into his shoulder, then his back, before getting slowly to his feet and looking around. He spotted a passageway leading out from the cellar; in lieu of any better ideas, he headed that way.

After a little wandering, he found another passageway. This one seemed older, the stone more worn; one end was closed off by snow and fallen rocks. He turned and started walking the other way, away from the rockfall. If he was lucky, maybe he’d discovered the passage the others had taken to flee.

He began to reconsider his luck - or rather, lack of it - when he stumbled out of the tunnel onto the snow-covered mountainside to find a blizzard blowing.

There were dim tracks as of a large number of people having passed this way; the snow was steadily filling them in. Clutching his cloak tightly around him, he tugged up his hood and bowed his head against the storm, and set off to try and find the others.

The snow was deep; it was over the top of his boots, and often he found himself floundering in drifts up to midthigh. The wind howled incessantly, driving the snow sideways then lashing it back into his face; the snow felt like pinpricks against his skin. He tugged his neck scarf up over his nose and mouth and pushed on. 

He could barely see perhaps a few feet ahead, and the tracks left by the fleeing refugees from Haven were being rapidly lost beneath a deep layer of snow. All he could do was keep trudging onwards and hope he was going in the right direction. It was night; looking backwards, he couldn’t even see the tunnel he had come out of.

He didn’t dare shout in case enemies were around. All he could do was just keep going, putting one foot after the other, half-deafened by the scream of the wind.

He was beginning to grow chilled, even with the cloak on. The hem was becoming caked with snow, and the legs of his pants were soaked through; the wet fabric was wicking heat away from his body that he could ill afford to spare. He stood still for a moment to draw on his mana a little, tapping into fire magic enough to warm and dry his trousers and warm the fabric of his tunic. The heat wouldn’t last, and he couldn’t keep doing it for long - but it would keep him warm for a little while.

He couldn’t see which way he was going; it was pitch dark now, the clouds overhead hiding the stars and moon from view. He called up a small globe of magelight. It cast a glowing white light that was reflected off the driving snow that still whipped all around him. He glanced back; the snow was swiftly filling in his tracks. He turned and headed on. To stand still would be to die; if he kept moving, he still might yet have some chance of finding the others. He wouldn’t let himself think of what would happen if he didn’t find them.

His world was reduced to a wall of white, the scream of the wind; one foot after the other, the cold biting through him. 

He lost track of time out there in that blinding whiteness; deafened by the shriek of the wind, it took him some time to realise it was gone. He’d been staggering forward, one foot in front of the other, not looking up; now, as he slowly lifted his head, he realised the wind had dropped, and he was trudging through a stone-walled canyon, the snow drifted here high enough to make it more of an effort to force himself onwards. He was shivering hard, his body shuddering spasmodically, and his teeth were chattering. His toes felt numb; his hands weren’t much better, for all he’d tucked them beneath his armpits. 

And he was so, so tired. He thought he could see light ahead. Was that torchlight? He couldn’t say. He was so cold, he couldn’t even think straight, and Maker but he was so tired. He knew that he shouldn’t lie down; if he did, he’d die there. But he wanted to; sweet Andraste did he want to.

He forced himself onwards, staggering through drifts that reached his waist in places. His foot caught on something, and he sprawled in the snow, breathless and chilled. It took him a little while to pull himself together and get back to his feet and stagger on, even more chilled before.

It took him longer to get to his feet the second time. The third time, he lay there, chilled to the bone, so cold he wasn’t even shivering any more. A distant part of his mind knew that was bad. Dangerous. But he just wanted to lie still and rest. He felt snow settle on his face, and it didn’t even feel cold anymore.

“There! It’s him!” called a voice; it sounded like... Cullen?

“Thank the Maker!” That was Cassandra. They sounded almost frantic, but he was so tired, and it was so nice just lying here in the snow. It was like a soft, fluffy blanket covering him; it didn’t even feel cold any more, and wasn’t that so strange?

Arms around him, lifting him up; he opened his eyes to see Cullen staring down at him, worried. 

He wanted to tell Cullen not to worry, but that would take more strength than he had left. He closed his eyes, and sank into darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

As he slowly drifted back to consciousness, the first thing Anders became aware of was that he was actually warm. The second was that he could hear arguing; several voices raised quite vociferously in ire. 

He was lying on his back, and he could feel something warm and furry curled up against his left shoulder and across his throat; it vibrated, and he suddenly realised it was a cat, purring, with its neck and chin stretched out to rest beneath his chin. _His_ cat; no other cat had quite that raspy low purr. He’d have known it anywhere. He smiled faintly as he reached up with one hand to stroke Pounce, and the purring intensified.

“He has not left your side since you returned to us,” said a woman’s voice, and Anders opened his eyes. Mother Giselle sat next to him; she smiled gently as he blinked at her. “Your friend the dwarf brought him with us through the passage,” she went on. “When the Commander and the Seeker brought you in, we all feared you were too far gone, but you began to respond when the cat was brought to you, and he has refused to leave your side ever since.”

Anders sat up slowly, and Pounce made a noise of protest before curling up in Anders’ lap. The shouting was still going on outside; with alarm, Anders realised it was Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana and the Ambassador Josephine all shouting accusations and recriminations at each other, tearing each other down in what must be the full view of the whole camp. 

“You need rest,” the Reverend Mother said quietly. “They have been arguing for hours. You have given them that luxury of time. The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame.” She looked aside, her expression grave. “Infighting may threaten us as much as this Corypheus.”

“We can’t afford to let them carry on tearing each other down like this!” exclaimed Anders. “ _I_ can’t!”

“They struggle because of what we all faced, Herald,” she told him gently. “They saw you stand against a terrible enemy - and fall before him, sacrificing yourself for their safety. And then you returned to us. The farther behind our enemy lies, the more miraculous your actions appear, and the more our trials seem ordained.”

Anders carefully lifted Pounce aside as he swung his legs over the side of the camp bed; beneath the warm covers he had been wearing only a clean pair of dark grey pants. He was all too keenly aware of Mother Giselle’s eyes on his scars as he cast around for a shirt.

“Our saviour has undergone his own trials; he has suffered for us and now returns. It makes our own suffering seem more bearable.”

Anders spotted his clothes laid in a neat pile; he snatched up his shirt and tugged it on, hiding his scarred back from her eyes. “I didn’t suffer these scars for them - or for you!” he snapped. “They were the fault of my own hubris for not being content with my lot in life. For wanting the basic freedoms you and they had always taken for granted! Don’t make me out to be some divinely ordained saviour; I’m not! I’m just one man, and as weak and fallible as any other out there.” He gestured with one hand towards the doorway of the tent, just as Dorian ducked under the flap and entered.

The Tevinter magister stared at him, startled, his eyes falling from Anders’ face to his scarred chest; Anders clutched at his shirt and tugged it closed, but not before he’d seen Dorian’s eyes alight upon the scar across his heart. The Tevinter Altus met his gaze, then to Anders’ surprise, respectfully dropped it and backed away out of the tent. He turned away hastily and buttoned his shirt.

“Whatever you believe yourself to be, they see you as far more,” said Mother Giselle. “They have need of hope, and you have brought it to them again. Do you not believe that one man can do this?”

Anders tugged on his boots then pulled on his feathered tunic before he glanced down at the Reverend Mother. “I don’t think what I believe really matters any more,” he said quietly as he snatched up his cloak, then turned and ducked out into the cold night air.

The arguing had stopped; as he glanced around, tugging the cloak on, he glanced around the camp site. Cullen stood off to one side, his face downcast, lit by the flickering firelight. The Commander looked old and worn, lines of pain etched into his forehead. Off to one side, Josephine sat hunched over on a bench, Leliana crouched at her feet as she rested a hand comfortingly on the Ambassador’s knee. As Anders lifted his glance, he saw Cassandra, leaning over a large map and staring hopelessly at it, tension radiating from the stiff lines of her body.

From the tent behind him, Anders heard the Reverend Mother’s voice lift up in song. He turned, surprised, as she lifted the flap and came to stand beside him, singing. He recognised the song; an old Chantry hymn. He had vague memories of his mother singing it to him, long ago.

Across the fire, Leliana had lifted her voice to join the song, her youthful soprano taking up the melody an octave above Mother Giselle’s warm alto. After a moment, a familiar tenor voice joined hers; startled, Anders glanced at Cullen. He had heard Cullen sing so often during Chantry services at the Circle, but it had been long years since last he’d heard him; yet here the Commander was, his eyes closed, singing; his voice ringing out slowly stronger. 

Other voices were raised in song now; refugee townspeople, Inquisition soldiers, all following the singing and raising their own voices to join in the song. Anders watched, wordless, as they gathered around the campfire and then one by one, knelt before him as he stared, his eyes widening. Wherever he turned, people were bowing or kneeling to him, still singing, and he felt a kind of unquiet terror rising inside. He had to fight the urge to do something wildly inappropriate, like laugh hysterically, or perhaps to scream. He felt trapped, hemmed in by the force of their expectations as much as by their physical presence.

As he stared around wildly, his eyes met those of Dorian across the camp, and he thought he saw a flash of sympathy in those storm-grey eyes. He was relieved to see that the Altus, at least, was not singing.

Anders swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and endured the adoration, wishing he could be anywhere but there right now.

 

***

Chancellor Roderick didn’t make it. He had died as the camp gathered and sang. Cole had sat with him and watched the light dim in the old man’s eyes, and then come and told Anders afterwards. Anders never told anyone what Cole told him; a dying man’s thoughts were not for him to share. A few others had only made it as far as that first camp after Haven. There was little wood for burning; the dead would be sent on their way by Vivienne, Dorian and Solas in the morning before the caravan moved out in search of a safe place for the Inquisition to re-establish itself.

As the rest of the camp settled that evening, Solas had spoken to the inner circle - that group of people who formed the war council and led or advised the Inquisition - and told them that the Herald would lead them to a new stronghold. Anders had been quietly stunned when everyone accepted the elf’s words - even Cullen and Vivienne, who had been his strongest opponents right from the start. He had expected arguments, but Cullen had merely asked when should they depart, and nodded when Solas suggested the morning. They had all looked to Anders then, and he’d stammered out that that would be a good idea - and to his surprise, they’d all nodded and accepted it.

Now Anders stood on the ridge, his hood pulled up against the snow as he leaned on his staff. The camp was stirring in the sheltered dell behind them as they began to pack up ready to move out. Pounce was a warm, comforting presence curled about his neck, the elderly cat’s head resting just beneath his right ear as he purred, unbothered by the swirling flurries of snow that obscured the landscape.

“Curious creature,” observed Solas as he glanced at the cat. “Remarkably loyal beyond what one would expect for one of its kind.”

Anders merely smiled and lifted his free hand to tickle the ginger tabby under the chin. “Pounce is pretty special,” he said. “Swatted a Genlock on the nose once with his claws, didn’t you, Pounce? Drew blood too.” The purring intensified. Anders grinned, then turned his gaze back to the snowy vista before them. “I honestly have no idea where we’re going, Solas. Are you sure I’m not just leading all these people to a cold, miserable death up here? I’m no leader. This... I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You are the Herald. They are lost; they need a figurehead, someone to give them hope. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build... grow.... You will find it, and I will help you,” replied Solas.

“North, you said?” asked Anders; the elf nodded. The blond apostate turned towards the north, and studied the terrain. Frowning, his eyes began to pick out the most likely safe route up the mountainside.

“You are familiar with this terrain, are you not?” said Solas quietly. 

“I was born in the Anderfels,” Anders replied quietly. “We moved to Ferelden when I was six, but I still remember the mountains. And back in the Kirkwall days, we were up on Sundermount often. This... this is more how I remember the Anderfels though. It’s... it almost feels like....”

“Home?” suggested Solas with a faint smile. Anders smiled back.

“Yes,” he answered. “Almost like home.”

“Herald!” called a voice; the two mages glanced back, and Anders raised his free hand to greet Cullen. The Commander waded through the snow, panting a little as he reached them. “Herald, we need to get moving if we’re to reach a safe place to camp by nightfall.”

Anders nodded, and pointed out the path he’d spotted. “There, Cullen - we’re going north.”

Cullen studied the path Anders had pointed out, then nodded. “You’re sure of this?”

“As sure as I am of anything,” the mage replied. Cullen stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

“North it is, then,” he replied.

 

***

 

They travelled through the mountains for several days. Anders had no idea where exactly they were going, but Solas had said to scout north. Each day they would break camp shortly after breakfast, perhaps an hour after dawn; and then Anders and Solas would go on ahead. Anders found that all he really seemed to need to do was to pick out the easiest route north through the mountains that the Inquisition forces and refugees from Haven could follow with the immense brontos pulling the baggage wains. Solas would merely nod approval as Anders pointed out the best route and kept him company as Anders pressed on ahead. 

He would pause for a rest and to allow the front of their caravan to catch up; usually he’d walk with them for a little while then press on, and increasingly he found that Cullen or Cassandra would walk ahead with him for a little way before dropping back to rejoin the rest of the caravan. He’d noticed Cullen’s attitude to him changing since Haven; his deference to Anders that night had been only the start. Now, the former Templar would chat with him amiably as they walked for a while, the hard stare replaced with quiet, self-deprecating humour, friendly-if-awkward smiles - an overture of apologetic friendship underlying the professionalism.

Anders wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, so he took it at face value. They were careful not to mention Kinloch much, and Kirkwall not at all. Anders found himself musing about little things he remembered of the Anderfels, and Cullen shared a few things about growing up in Honnleath. 

Anders caught himself almost flirting with Cullen out of old habit once or twice, much as he had often during his time in the Circle. He didn’t think Cullen noticed, but it disquietened him that he’d fallen back into a habit he’d thought long since lost.

He felt even more ill at ease around Cassandra; she seemed to regard him in an entirely new light. Though her attitude towards him had thawed even before the Venatori attack, Anders found the way she had looked at him ever since the singing to be very disconcerting. It was clear to him that Cassandra, at least, fully believed he _was_ the Herald of Andraste. Anders was not looking forward to tumbling off this particular pedestal.

He enjoyed it more when Varric occasionally would come to walk with him, though Varric never kept it up for long - he was well aware that Anders was deliberately walking slowly to match his shorter legs. But by the time they made camp at each day’s end, Anders had often driven himself to the point of exhaustion and was barely capable of doing much more than eating and then collapsing into his camp bed; often in the course of scouting, Anders would roam far ahead of Solas, climbing partway up the mountainside to look ahead before returning to the mountain path and Solas.

It was late afternoon, a little over a week after the Venatori assault on Haven, when Solas and Anders made their way through a narrow pass and saw the slanting golden rays of the sun illuminate the ancient abandoned fortress perhaps a day’s journey ahead of them. Anders lifted a hand to shield his eyes against the sunlight as he stared at the castle; it stood alone on a rocky crag, a long, high-arched bridge connecting it to the high winding pass that they had been scouting.

“Skyhold,” said Solas quietly as he came to stand beside Anders. 

***

The fortress was in need of a lot of work; that was plain from the moment they passed across the bridge into the outer courtyard. The Inquisition’s people swung into operation; quarters for the inner circle were picked out from the most serviceable rooms in the inner keep and plans drawn up to renovate and furnish them appropriately; the kitchens were cleaned and provisioned and the Inquisition cooks set to work. Many of the refugees from haven were taken on as castle staff and threw themselves into their new work to help make the fortress habitable.

Anders had been chased away by everyone he tried to help; every time he tried to help unload a wagon he was waved away, boxes taken out of his hands when he tried to carry them in - even a broom was snatched off him when he tried to make himself useful by helping to sweep the floor of the chamber that Josephine had informed him was to be his room. She had affected to ignore him when he tried to protest it was far more than he needed and really, there were a couple of nice rooms just off what would be the library and couldn’t he have one of those? He’d conceded defeat when she had started tapping her foot at him testily; he’d never yet seen the Antivan diplomat lose her temper and he preferred not to.

In the end, he’d spent the first day exploring and trying to keep out of the way of busy people wielding brooms and carrying boxes, all of which seemed to have jobs to do. 

For the first two months, they continued to live under canvas, camped out within the lower and upper courtyards during the slow work of cleaning and renovating the keep to the point where there was sufficient habitable space for the Inquisition to take up occupancy proper. In that time, they were able to send out scouts to establish supply routes, bringing in furnishings, provisions and other much-needed supplies to bring the keep up to liveable status before the inner circle were able to finally move into their assigned quarters.

Anders would have much preferred to move into one of the smaller rooms just off the newly-established library. His quarters however were towards the rear of the keep. A spiral staircase leading off the end of the corridor from the war room led up to a set of rooms, including a bathing chamber with - of all things - what appeared to be dwarven plumbing that was even still functional. Anders couldn’t help but wonder just how many others in Skyhold had access to such a luxury; very few, he suspected. The main room had a large balcony with a wide view of the Frostback mountains looking towards Ferelden and the West. The room was, in truth, too large for his comfort; it felt too wide open. There was a sort of office area in one corner with a couple of book cases and a desk, towards the balcony doors; there was a long couch near the fireplace and a dining table and chairs for if Anders chose to entertain guests to dinner in his room instead of downstairs in the Great Hall.

Josephine had, at least, asked his advice on decor and furnishings; the large four-poster bed was made of heavy dark Ferelden oak and had warm dark red velvet drapes. Anders had deliberately selected pieces that reminded him of Hawke’s home back in Kirkwall, with a definite Ferelden feel. It would have been too claustrophobic to draw all the curtains of the bed, but at least by drawing them on one side and with the canopy overhead he felt less exposed when sleeping there. After living so many years in his small clinic in Darktown, then Hawke’s modest Hightown house followed by months sharing a ship’s cabin with Isabela before he and Hawke settled in their little cabin - not to mention weeks now under canvas with the Inquisition - he found that such a wide open space was a little unnerving. But the bed helped offset that a little, and the familiarity made it feel like home. When he climbed into bed and snuggled down beneath the thick down comforter, he could almost have fooled himself that he were back in Kirkwall, and that perhaps Hawke and Fenris were merely in another room.

Almost.

Still, he much preferred to hang out in the keep’s rotunda and talk to Solas, or to haunt the new library. He felt a small surge of delight when he found that Dorian had claimed the small room that led directly off the library over Solas’ rooms - and then a surge of guilt over that delight that caused him to avoid the library as much as possible afterwards. 

Cullen had chosen to set his office up in one of the towers that stood over the gateway leading into Skyhold. It wasn’t until Anders’ second visit to Cullen’s office that he realised Cullen actually slept in the small room over his office; he’d assumed at first that the ladder leading up to the square hole in the ceiling was for a storage area.

“Is that... it _is_!” he exclaimed as he peered up through the hatch to the room above. “Cullen, there’s a _hole_ in your bedroom ceiling!”

“Thank you, Herald, I hadn’t noticed,” remarked Cullen drily as he leafed through the reports on his desk.

“That’s not what -” Anders broke off and frowned. “Surely Josephine could find you a better room in the keep?”

“Not necessary,” replied Cullen briskly as he scrawled a signature on one document and set it aside. “I prefer to be here.”

“But -”

“Was there something you needed, Herald?” Cullen gave him a pointed glare as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Are you alright?” asked Anders, frowning slightly.

“Yes, I’m fine; it’s just a headache,” Cullen said dismissively.

“Would you like me to-” began Anders, lifting his right hand and wiggling his fingers a little.

“No!” exclaimed Cullen. “That is, no - thank you. It will pass. Thank you for your concern, but that’s really not necessary.”

“Like the hole in your roof?” said Anders. 

Cullen glared at him, and Anders retreated, leaving Cullen to his reports, his headache - and the hole in his roof.

Skyhold was becoming a busy place. Traders and merchants were arriving daily to set up and ply their trade to the keep’s inhabitants from the lower courtyard on a weekly basis. Josephine, Cullen and Cassandra had drawn up plans for further renovation and building work on the keep and its fortifications; and Leliana’s ravens had found a permanent home in the rookery at the top of the rotunda high above the library, from where they flew out all across Thedas.

There was an old chapel in the upper courtyard; its entrance was in the overgrown walled garden. Mother Giselle took it over and with help soon restored it. One of the doors from Anders’ rooms led out onto a private walkway that overlooked the garden; one morning he was awakened early by the sound of singing. He had gone out onto the walkway to listen and stood there for some time as the once-familiar Chant rang out. He found himself quietly singing along. When he turned to return inside, he found that a messenger from Cassandra was waiting patiently with an awestruck look, and Anders wondered if he’d now added to the growing myth of the Herald of Andraste. He’d have to ask Varric later.

Cassandra was waiting for him in the lower courtyard. She beckoned him over with a smile, and began walking; he fell into step with her.

“They arrive daily, from every settlement in the region,” she told him without preamble. “Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage.”

Anders glanced at the tents set up here and there on the green grass as they headed towards the steps up towards the upper courtyard.

“If word has reached these people, you can be sure it will have reached the Elder One,” she went on. “We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond the war we had anticipated. But we now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew him to you.”

Anders lifted his hand and stared at the anchor in his palm; it flickered briefly. “This,” he said quietly. “It’s useless to him now, so he wants me dead. It’s twice now that I’ve thwarted him.”

“Twice?” said Cassandra, shooting him a startled look.

“You’ve read Varric’s ‘The Tale of the Champion’,” he shrugged. “You know we faced Corypheus and defeated him before. Varric left out the more interesting parts of that tale.”

Cassandra glanced around cautiously; they had reached one of the more decrepit parts of the fortress that hadn’t yet been rebuilt. They were, for the moment, alone.

“You have faced Corypheus before then?” she asked.

“Not just faced him, but I heard him in my head. You know that I am - or was - a Grey Warden?”

“Yes, I do,” she nodded.

“Well, when we were in the old Grey Warden fortress in the Vimmark Mountains, he... tried to possess me. To take control of me.” Anders winced, remembering how close the Elder One had come to succeeding. “He failed, obviously, but... when I confronted him at Haven, I think he remembered me.”

“So he has even more reason to want you dead,” Cassandra said slowly. Anders nodded. “Could it be that this is why you bear the anchor?” she wondered. “Is that how you came to be in the Temple of Ashes, and survived?”

“I went to the temple because it was my fault the whole damn war began in the first place,” said Anders. “Enough people had died as a result of my actions. I should have died in Kirkwall, but somehow I didn’t.”

“Cullen told me he had seen the scar. He said that you should have died,” said Cassandra quietly.

“I did die,” said Anders bleakly. “Something brought me back.”

“But don’t you see?” said Cassandra, an almost religious fervour lighting up her eyes. “Andraste Herself had a purpose for you! It was not your time to die. You needed to live, so that you could close the Breach!”

“No... no, please, Cassandra, you’re not listening to me,” groaned Anders. “I _killed_ people. Cullen told you the truth - I _am_ a murderer. You saw for yourself the destruction I caused in Kirkwall, and every single death in the Mage-Templar War can be laid directly at my feet!”

“But you repent of it - I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice!” argued Cassandra. “Don’t you see? The Maker Himself has given you another chance, and Andraste Herself chose you as her Herald so you can make things right again!”

“Cassandra, please, don’t do this,” he groaned. “I’m not the man you think I am. I’m no-one’s chosen one, I’m just me. I’m not even living as myself but as this - this Trevelyan person. I’m living a lie.”

“Trevelyan or Anders, it doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “You are more than you think. Your decisions let us heal the sky, and it was your determination that brought us out of Haven.” She caught at his hand. “Come with me,” she said, and tugged him onwards.

They reached the steps leading up to the entrance to the keep. “You are that creature’s rival because of what _you_ did. And we know it. All of us,” she added, as they reached the landing halfway up the stairs.

Anders’ steps slowed. Leliana stood there, waiting, a sword held before her in her upturned hands. As Anders halted before her, bewildered, the spymaster bowed her head. Anders’ eyes widened.

“Leliana, what... what’s going on?” he asked quietly.

“The Inquisition requires a leader: the one who has _already_ been leading it,” Cassandra answered him as Leliana presented the sword to him.

“ _Me??_ ” Anders exclaimed in disbelief. He became aware suddenly of voices; a crowd gathered in the courtyard, clustering around the base of the steps and staring up at him.

“You,” said Cassandra quietly.

“Cassandra... no, I can’t!” he said, feeling panic rising up in his chest. “I’m not a leader!”

“You are more than you think,” replied Cassandra. “We are all agreed. I would be terrified handing this power to _anyone_ , but I believe it is the only way.”

Anders turned and stared out over the crowd, spying Cullen and Josephine standing side by side, the Ambassador smirking a little.

“You all planned this,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you?”

“Mostly Josephine, but we all agreed at once. You were the obvious choice. The Inquisition must have an Inquisitor. When my messenger came and told me he heard you singing the Chant of Light this morning at dawn, it was but one more sign that our decision was the right one.”

Anders stared at the sword. “I don’t suppose I have much choice,” he quietly said in a tone of resignation. “Very well.” He reached for the sword and took it. It was heavy; it felt alien in his hand as he raised it, the early morning sun glinting off the ornate dragons-head quillions. 

Cassandra strode forward. “Have our people been told?” she called out.

“They have, and soon the world!” shouted back Josephine.

“Commander, will they follow?” called Cassandra.

Cullen strode to the base of the steps and drew his own blade. “Inquisition!” he called. “Will you follow?”

There was an instant roar of approval. “Will you fight?” shouted Cullen over the cries of “Aye!” and “We will!” The roar increased.

“Will we triumph?” continued Cullen, his voice rising louder as the crowd answered again.

“Your leader! Your Herald! Your _Inquisitor!_ ” roared Cullen as he turned to point at Anders with his sword, and the crowd went wild.

Anders stared down at the crowd numbly and raised the sword into the air in acknowledgement.

Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels. How was he going to get himself out of _this_ mess??


	9. Chapter 9

There was a sense of renewed purpose about Skyhold. The keep was a flurry of activity; Leliana’s ravens flew back and forth at all hours, it seemed; bearing messages to and from the spymaster. Scouts returned daily with reports for Cullen, dispatched the following day with new orders as the Inquisition’s Commander leaned on the War table and studied the placement of small metal figures. Messengers arrived daily, bringing reports and letters to Josephine from potential allies expressing interest in the Inquisition; several requested audiences with the Inquisitor, and Anders found himself having to endure several long, tedious meetings with various Orlesian, Antivan and Nevarran nobles, presided over by Josephine and sometimes Leliana. The Orlesian First Enchanter, Madame de Fer, invited herself along to one meeting with a particularly troublesome and demanding Orlesian noble and soon demonstrated her familiarity with courtly manners and politics; after that, Anders made sure Vivienne was included in all meetings where he had to deal with nobles. 

He found Vivienne’s attitude towards him began to thaw after that. It seemed she was flattered and pleased to be included.

Anders disliked these petitioners’ meetings; for a start, he was very uncomfortable with the whole idea of the throne which Josephine had insisted upon. He had made sure they opted for as plain and simple a throne as possible. It consisted of a very high-backed wooden chair of dark Ferelden oak, the armrests carved into lion’s-heads and the flaming eye symbol of the Inquisition carved and gilded, set into the seat back above Anders’ head. It was upholstered in dark red velvet that didn’t seem to make it any more comfortable to sit in - or perhaps that was simply down to Anders’ unease at having to sit in it. He felt wrong, ill at ease, out of place - as though he were a naughty apprentice sitting in the First Enchanter’s chair and certain one of the templars would be by any minute to catch him at it and punish him. He tried to sit still and at least _appear_ attentive; Cassandra’s looming presence nearby did little to reassure him; she glared at him briefly whenever he fidgeted uncomfortably in the seat. Worse still, Ser Pounce-a-lot was banished from such sessions. Anders would have found them more tolerable and less stressful if he’d had a lapful of cat to stroke, but both Cassandra and Josephine had been firm on that point - no cats during the petitioning sessions.

He couldn’t wait to escape at the end of each meeting; they seemed interminably long, almost torturously so. He’d had no idea that being made Inquisitor would be so tedious. If he’d known just what was in store for him when Cassandra had sent for him, he thought he likely would have run out of the gates and not stopped running until he reached the little cabin where he and Hawke had been so happy together for a while. Maker, even hunting up Fenris would have been better than this - though Anders dreaded to think what the elf would have to say to him. 

It was after the fifth meeting with the Orlesian ambassador that Vivienne laid her hand upon his arm as they were leaving the Great Hall where they conducted most of their meetings with petitioners; and as Vivienne detained him with that elegant dark hand upon his arm he paused, surprised.

“Inquisitor, are you free this afternoon?” she inquired.

“This afternoon?” Anders echoed, frowning a little. He racked his mind; Josephine had said nothing of any further meetings today, they weren’t due another session in the War Room until tomorrow. He’d pondered browsing the library; there’d been a new shipment of books, but he supposed he could drop by later on. “Yes, I... I think I am,” he replied finally, aware Vivienne was regarding him expectantly.

“Excellent!” she purred. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of joining me in my quarters for wine and refreshments? I much desire to speak with you.”

“You do?” said Anders, staring at her more intently. There was a look in her eyes he couldn’t quite fathom. She was after something, though what, he wasn’t sure. “I’d be glad to join you, Madame, and discuss whatever you wish - within reason,” he added with a lopsided smile.

“But of course,” she smiled back. She leaned a little closer, and Anders was suddenly acutely aware of the rich heady scent of roses and violets from the scent she wore. “I very much look forward to getting to know you... Trevelyan.”

“And I you... Vivienne,” he replied. Her smile widened.

“Then I shall see you at the second bell after noon?” she suggested.

“I shall look forward to it, Madame,” replied Anders as he drew away and inclined his head towards her with a small bow.

“As shall I,” she promised before she swept away with another enigmatic smile.

“I’d watch out if I were you, Blondie,” remarked Varric quietly from his side. “You’re walking into trouble there; best keep your wits about you.”

“I concur,” said Dorian quietly as he came up just behind Anders’ shoulder on the other side. “Madame de Fer is far too used to the politics of the Game; I don’t know how the Ostwick Circle handles such things, but I dare say facing off against her would be playing with fire. If you walk into the viper’s den, you’d best not go unprepared.”

“The Ostwick Circle doesn’t play such games,” replied Anders, though his thoughts were on Kinloch as he spoke. Politics there were strictly between the senior enchanters as they jockeyed for position, and between the First Enchanter and Gregoir, leader of the templars. Anders had been far too lowly to be involved in such things, and all his energies had been focused on escaping. One didn’t see much of politics whilst languishing in a cell, after all. “And I was... usually preoccupied with other things.”

Dorian patted his shoulder gently. “Come and find me in the library when you’ve escaped the clutches of dear Vivienne,” he suggested. “I have a rather nice Nevarran Red waiting that should help take away the taste of politics that would be just perfect for sharing, if you’ve a mind? Or perhaps... before visiting dear Vivienne? I could... _advise_ you on how to handle yourself around an experienced player of the Game.”

Anders turned slightly towards Dorian and found the Tevinter Altus was standing rather close, his storm-grey eyes regarding Anders intently, a faint smile curving his lips beneath the immaculately-groomed moustache. Anders found his gaze drawn to those lips, then drew his eyes back up to those of Dorian, who regarded him with a knowing smirk.

“And are you, then, such an experienced player of the Game?” asked Anders, his voice dropping to match the conspiratorial tone of the Altus as he cocked his head on one side, still fighting to keep his gaze on Dorian’s eyes and not his lips, unconsciously licking his own as he stared into those soft grey depths.

He couldn’t miss the way Dorian’s pupils suddenly widened as the Altus’ gaze dropped to Anders lips very briefly before flicking back up to meet Anders’ gaze. _Ah. Definite interest there._

“In Tevinter, we play our own version of the Game,” replied Dorian quietly. “Equally deadly at times - after all, politics in the Imperium is a cut-throat business at the best of times. Those born to the Alti are raised to the Game practically from birth. I can teach you a little... if you like.”

“And are we not playing the game now, then?” murmured Anders, leaning ever so slightly closer to the other mage. This close, he could smell a heady scent of spices and a subtle touch of perfume that hinted at sandalwood; he found himself wanting to draw closer, inhale deeply, kiss -

_What are you doing??_

He pulled himself away abruptly and wrenched his gaze away sharply. “Maybe later - after lunch,” he suggested hastily.

“Later, then,” smiled Dorian, seemingly unconcerned by Anders’ sudden change in demeanor as he turned away. He cast Anders a last glance over his shoulder then sauntered off in the direction of the library. Anders found his gaze drawn to the Tevinter Altus’ rear until Varric elbowed him sharply in the ribs, distracting him. He glanced down at the dwarf.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” remarked Varric. “I’d watch your step, kiddo. What would Hawke say? Or Fenris?”

“What?” exclaimed Anders. “I’m not - Varric, there’s nothing going on between me and Dorian! He’s just - being friendly, is all.”

“That looked like more than just being friendly to me,” replied Varric. “And you seemed to be enjoying it. That looked like more than innocent flirting to me, Blondie. And if you two keep this up, others will start to notice.”

“Was it that obvious?” said Anders, startled. “Varric, that was - I was just flirting! I do it when I’m nervous - I can’t help it. I don’t mean to, I just -”

“Easy, Blondie,” said Varric calmly. “It’s none of my business who you flirt with. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, is all - and I have the feeling Sparkler comes with a whole pile of baggage all of his own.”

“He seems... lonely,” said Anders. “I understand that. If you weren’t here, Varric, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Hey, you’d still have Curly!” pointed out Varric.

“Who drew his sword on me at our first meeting and wanted to slit my throat,” Anders reminded him as they headed slowly from the Great Hall towards the rear of the keep.

“Ah, what’s a little misunderstanding between friends?” shrugged Varric. Anders snorted.

“I don’t think Cullen quite qualifies as a friend, do you?” he replied.

“Maybe not,” agreed the dwarf ruefully as they came to a halt at the bottom of the spiral staircase leading up to the Inquisitor’s rooms. “Listen, Blondie. The Iron Lady puts on a good show, but that’s all it is - an act. Once you get to know her, you’ll find she’s not so scary, OK? don’t sweat it - you’ll be fine. You’ve already laid the groundwork by bringing her in on these discussions. Just keep flattering her and you’ll have her eating out of your hand in no time.” He grinned. “Flirt with her the way you did with Sparkler and you’ll be all set!” Varric paused. “You... _do_ like women too, right?”

Anders snorted. “Varric, trust me - back in my days in the Tower, the gender of a prospective partner was very much the last thing on my mind - well, unless I was specifically looking for -”

“OK, too much information, thank you!” protested Varric laughing as he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, so you’ll have no problems flirting and wooing the Iron Lady. Seriously, Blondie, this’ll be a piece of cake.” 

Anders nodded. “Wish me luck?”

“With the Iron Lady?” asked Varric, then snorted. “Kiddo, if you turn on the heat the way you did with Sparkler, you’re not going to need it!”

“Thanks, Varric,” murmured Anders. “You’re so reassuring.” He headed towards the spiral staircase that led up to his rooms.


	10. Chapter 10

Vivienne had decked out her room in the very latest Orlesian style, full of sumptuous velvets and silks, rich golds and jewel-like colours, the air heady with scent. Even the tea she served Anders was rose-scented; it was rather too floral for Anders’ tastes and much too sweet, but he accepted it with a nod and smile of thanks as he forced himself to affect a nonchalant air and relax back into the expensive-looking damask-upholstered chair as though he had been born to such luxury rather than a small wooden cabin in the Anderfels that smelled of woodsmoke and pine, or dwelled in the foetid depths of Kirkwall’s Darktown. Vivienne’s rooms were spelled for warmth against the bitter chill in the winter air of the Frostback Mountains.

Vivienne took the seat opposite and bestowed a dazzling smile upon him. “Inquisitor, I am so glad you were able to spare a few moments of your time; you’re a very busy man, I know.”

Anders favoured her with a smile of his own. “Never too busy for you, Madame de Fer,” he answered.

“Please, call me Vivienne, Inquisitor,” she encouraged him.

“Trevelyan,” he answered.

Vivienne tilted her head a little to one side. “If you wish... Trevelyan,” she answered. “But come, we can be candid here. We both know you never set foot in Ostwick.”

Anders’ smile never wavered. “And does it matter if I didn’t?” he replied, arching an eyebrow.

“There are some who would say it does,” she said quietly.

Anders steepled his fingers and regarded her steadily, his eyes never leaving hers even as he continued to smile; his amber gaze was now decidedly cool however, matching the icy chill he felt down his spine. “And would the name of Vivienne de Fer be among them?” he asked pointedly.

“I am loyal to the Inquisition,” she answered, before sipping daintily at her tea.

“But not its Inquisitor?” said Anders.

“I did not say that,” she answered smoothly. Was that a faint hint of defensiveness in her tone? He wasn’t certain. 

Despite his outward calm demeanor, inwardly Anders felt out of his depth. He was unused to diplomacy, even in spite of Josephine’s careful coaching; years in the Wardens and then in Kirkwall had left him too unused to ferreting out intentions and hidden meanings. He could still turn on the charm when he chose, but the silver tongue and guile that had kept him alive around the templars and spared him the noose and the brand through the long years in Kinloch had grown rusty with disuse.

Still, Vivienne had only her wits and her tongue; unlike the templars, she had no true power over him. Not that that meant he could necessarily afford to alienate her, mind you - but nor was he about to let her attempt to blackmail him, if that was her plan here.

“What do you want, Vivienne?” he asked, staring back at her steadily.

“You are very... forthright, Trevelyan,” she said as she set down her cup upon its matching saucer. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her shapely legs demurely at the ankles. 

_And you’re not answering my questions,_ Anders thought, saying nothing. The cloying scent in the air was beginning to give him a headache and he wondered if that were a deliberate ploy of the Orlesian First Enchanter. What had seemed a welcoming warmth at first now felt stifling.

His continued silence seemed to finally irk her enough that a small frown of annoyance marred her brow briefly before the wrinkle smoothed over and she gave him another smile. “You seem to be getting along wonderfully with our dear Commander Cullen,” she observed as she tilted her head a little to one side. “Almost as though you’d known each other for years.”

“Funny how two people can just hit it off like that,” smiled Anders.

“Much like yourself and Varric?” she asked.

“Ser Tethras has been very kind to me,” replied Anders. “Things were so confusing and disorienting after the Temple of Ashes. But then Varric is kind to everyone.”

“But you especially, I think,” remarked Vivienne. “He was the companion of the Champion of Kirkwall I believe?”

“Was he?” said Anders diffidently. “I know he wrote a book about the Champion. I believe there’s a copy in the library.”

“He wrote very flatteringly of one of the Champion’s companions,” went on Vivienne. “Tall, dashing, handsome, golden blond hair - the tragic apostate. You know the one. Anders.”

“Varric seems to be fond of flowery descriptions and phrases,” Anders shrugged. “I’m sure he can’t have been half so handsome as Varric described him in his book. Probably snored, too.” He shifted in his chair and took a sip from his cup. The tea was as sweet and cloying as the scented air, and he resolved to go take up Dorian on his offer of wine just as soon as he could extricate himself from Vivienne’s presence. Maker knows he needed a drink.

She wasn’t going to come straight out and tell him what she wanted; that much was clear. He wondered why she had chosen to do this here and now however - she seemed to have been content to not push the issue of his identity since Haven, even seemed to warm to him after he’d given her a greater role in diplomatic negotiations and sought out her advice more. She’d raised no objection to his appointment as Inquisitor. What was she playing at?

Or was she simply trying to warn him, he suddenly wondered.

“You know, Varric’s book could almost have been describing you,” she continued. “Do you snore too, Trevelyan?”

“I wouldn’t know; I’m usually asleep at the time,” Anders deadpanned back. 

“Should I ask Cullen?” she smiled, with a hint of teeth.

“I should hardly think he’d know; we’re hardly bedfellows, after all. Not my type.”

“Not a fan of strapping big blond men, Inquisitor?” she smiled.

“Not a fan of templars,” replied Anders testily. She leaned forward slightly and tapped her chin thoughtfully with an almost conspiratorial air.

“So who _would_ be your type?” she asked. 

“Why, Vivienne, I’d almost think you were propositioning me if I didn’t know better,” he replied, giving her a coy look.

“And if I were?” she said. 

He blinked. That was remarkably more direct than he’d expected from Vivienne. _Almost too direct._ “That depends. Are you?”

She arched an eyebrow, then laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, my dear Inquisitor. No, no, merely teasing you; I don’t see how propositioning you would benefit me in the slightest. What could you offer me that I don’t already have? Power? Prestige? A place at court? I already have all of those. And I doubt I am your type any more than our dear Commander is.” She smiled with a hint of genuine warmth. “Forgive me, dear; I couldn’t resist. I wanted to see what you would do.” She turned and picked up her cup of tea.

“Vivianne, please be honest. What is it you want from me?” Anders asked.

“Will you then be honest with me in return?” asked Vivienne, levelling her gaze at him.

“A truth for a truth,” suggested Anders.

“Alright then,” said Vivienne. “Shall I make it easier for you? I’ll go first.”

Anders gestured for her to continue. She set her tea aside again, and the smile faded from her face to be replaced by an intent look.

“I knew you couldn’t possibly have been from Ostwick, because _I_ came from Ostwick myself before I went to Montsimmard at age fifteen. And the only Trevelyan I ever knew at Ostwick was a woman with dark hair and blue eyes, just like all the Trevelyans. That was my first clue that you weren’t who you were claimed to be. The second was your fighting style; you were never taught those staff fighting techniques in any Circle. And thirdly the way you and Varric behaved around each other, particularly when fighting. You had fought together - and often. And it shows.” She turned her head slightly, her eyes still holding his gaze. “I know who you are. Now, will you say your true name, or shall I?”

Anders stared at her, feeling ice run through his veins. “Anders. I escaped the Circle at Kinloch, and I’ve never been to Ostwick in my life,” he finally admitted.

She leaned back with a satisfied look. “There, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she said as she took up her tea, stirring it slowly with a silver spoon. “I am impressed however. It can’t have been easy keeping it secret; I’ve been trying to ferret it out of you ever since I first laid eyes on you in Haven. Yet even now, when we are established here in Skyhold and you’ve been made Inquisitor, you still keep to the story. No amount of my trying to get it out of you was going to work. My congratulations. You play the Game well, Inquisitor - or may I call you Anders?”

He held himself stiffly in his chair, not daring to relax. “Best not,” he replied.

“Very wise, my dear,” nodded Vivienne. “There are too many mages here that lost far too much thanks to you; your name is a curseword on their lips, and if they knew you were still alive they’d seek to remedy that, Inquisitor or no.” She gave him a sharp look. 

“You don’t seem to hate me as much as they do,” Anders said carefully. She gave a short, mirthless laugh.

“I’m not about to congratulate you either,” she said. “What you did was madness. Your actions led to hundreds of deaths. You destroyed an order that had existed for thousands of years. People now fear mages in a way they had not done since the heyday of the Tevinter Empire - and all thanks to you and rebels like Fiona who followed your lead, declaring for independence instead of the safety of the Circle!”

“The _safety_?” exclaimed Anders. “The slavery, you mean! In Kirkwall -”

“Kirkwall was an aberration,” Vivienne said, waving a hand dismissively. “The excesses there were unique to Kirkwall. In the Circle there was order, peace; mages were fed, clothed, a roof over their heads, given an education above and beyond that required to control their magic. We were privileged; no mage need fear starving or freezing; we lived like _nobility_. Then with a click of your fingers that changed.”

Anders stared at her, his breath coming faster though he tried to control it, to slow his racing heart. He could feel his anger burning fierce and hot inside, and suddenly the heat in the room was too much, the air thick and choking with the fumes of that damnable scent. _Mustn’t lose my temper._ It was his anger that had caused all this in the first place. Vivienne was just as much a product of the Circles in her own way as he was; he would only alienate her with his anger. The Inquisition needed her far more than she needed them. 

He needed air. He lurched to his feet and suddenly felt sick; his head pounding, a faint roaring in his ears as his vision swam. He couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath.

He heard Vivienne’s voice as though from a distance. “Inquisitor? Are you unwell? You’ve gone white!” 

He stumbled back and dropped down into the chair again, his fury gone as swiftly as it had come, leaving him shaken at how it had overcome him so swiftly. He had always thought it Justice that had taken him over the edge from anger into blind rage and fury, but what little that had remained of Justice was gone - sacrificing himself that Anders might live and freeing them both from what had become Vengeance. To find himself carried so swiftly into unthinking wrath like that was, frankly, terrifying, and he felt as though someone had dashed him in the face with ice-cold water; nausea churned in his guts uneasily. He thought the few sips of oversweet tea he had managed to choke down would come back up, and he could barely think straight for the pounding in his head.

“Anders?”

He managed to look up at Vivienne. “A migraine. Forgive me, I need -”

“Of course darling. Go rest. And fear not; your secret is safe with me. I may not agree with what you’ve done in the past, but the Inquisition needs you now.”

Anders managed to give her a ghost of a smile. “Was that it? Was that what this was all about? To tell me I could trust you?”

“But of course, Inquisitor,” replied Vivienne. “The Game is _everything_.”

Her naivity would almost have been charming if he didn’t think it were likely to end in someone getting killed, he reflected inwardly. 

“Should I call for assistance?” asked Vivienne as he managed to lever himself up from his seat; he shook his head. 

“Dorian or Solas will be near the library if I need help,” he said. She pulled a face.

“Solas is hardly likely to be much use - and I wouldn’t put your trust in a Tevinter mage, my dear,” she warned him. 

“Dorian has been a loyal member of the Inquisition thus far and given me no more reason to distrust him than you have, Vivienne,” Anders said, swallowing hard against his nausea. _Less, in fact._ “I’m sure either of them can be trusted to see I make it back to my rooms in one piece.”

“If you’re sure, darling,” she said dubiously.

“I am,” he said firmly.

He managed to make it as far as Dorian’s little nook in the library before he stumbled and nearly fell. His vision greyed out briefly as he leaned against a bookshelf; he held still, waiting for the throbbing in his head and the churning in his stomach to ease up enough to let him stagger onwards. Maker, he could barely even think straight.

He barely heard Dorian’s startled exclamation. “Inquisitor? Are you -” Then Anders felt a warm, strong arm around his waist, steadying him. “Trevelyan, what’s wrong?”

“Migraine,” Anders managed to get out through gritted teeth. “Please tell me you have elfroot as well as wine.” 

“ _Venhedis_ \- of course, both in my room. Come on - that’s it, one step after the other. That’s it. Door’s just here.” The wooden floor of the library gave way to a rich, thick wool carpet, and then the Tevinter Altus was helping him to lie down on a soft bed. An opened elfroot potion was pressed into his hands before Dorian turned away to douse the candles, leaving the room lit only by the glow from the cheery warming fire. Anders downed the elfroot potion then lay back upon the soft pillows and closed his eyes.

It was the perfume, he guessed; Vivienne’s room had been too warm, the scent too strong, and he already on edge before that sudden rush of fury that left him drained and frightened in its wake.

There was the sound of a cork being popped from a bottle and then the soft splash of wine being poured into glasses. Anders opened his eyes then sat up to take the glass of wine Dorian held out to him.

“Really, Inquisitor, I’m used to men falling for me and ending up in my bed but never quite like this,” teased the Tevinter mage gently. 

“Sorry,” Anders sighed, sipping the wine slowly. The elfroot was slowly taking effect; with luck the wine would help him relax enough to help the herb do its work.

“No, it’s quite all right,” Dorian waved the apology away. “I’ve never had a migraine myself but I understand they’re wretched things. Is there anything further I can do, or should I leave you to sleep it off and let the wine and elfroot do their job?”

“Sleep,” replied Anders as he drained his glass. Dorian took the empty glass then gently pushed Anders back to lie down again. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” said Dorian as he got to his feet; Anders caught his wrist before he could move away.

“Stay,” he murmured, then turned his head upon the pillow and closed his eyes, asleep within minutes.


	11. Chapter 11

Anders slept for several hours. At some point in the evening, he half-woke, dazed and disoriented, to find that Dorian was carefully and gently unlacing his boots. Anders had just enough awareness to be embarrassed that he’d sprawled upon Dorian’s bed still booted, but his murmured attempt to apologise was waved away with a smile by the Tevinter Altus. Anders’ head still ached abominably, though at least it no longer felt like someone was trying to drive shards of fire into his skull through his right eye and out the other side any more.

Dorian had brought food, but Anders waved it away. With Dorian’s help he was able to slip out of his tunic though he wouldn’t let the other man remove his shirt. Dorian tucked him up in bed and handed him another elfroot potion before Anders slipped into sleep once more.

The second time he woke, the fire had burned low; in the glow of the embers, he could make out Dorian asleep in a chair beside the bed. The blanket he’d tugged over himself had slipped down from his bare left shoulder and his head rested against the side wing of the high-backed chair. Anders felt guilty for having deprived the Altus of his bed. His head was still aching, but he felt coherent enough now to draw a little on his magic and drive away the last of the pain. It took more concentration than it usually would, and he felt tired and drained afterwards in the post-ictal aftermath of the migraine. He sank back into sleep, and didn’t awaken again until fairly late the next morning.

Dorian was leaning over his desk, writing, but as Anders stirred he straightened and glanced over at him.

“Ah, awake at last, I see!” smiled the Altus. “Feeling better I trust?”

“Much,” agreed Anders. “I’m sorry to have just staggered in like that and then stolen your bed last night.”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” said Dorian airily, waving Anders’ apology away. “You were hardly in any fit state to make it back to your own rooms - though I should warn you we are doubtless going to occasion gossip if you’re seen leaving mine. People do so love to jump to conclusions, and I hardly think you need my reputation tarnishing your own.” He smiled wryly, and Anders wondered what Dorian would say if he knew who it _really_ was he’d given his bed up to last night. Whatever Dorian’s reputation, he doubted it could be worse than his own.

“No doubt at the very least Mother Giselle would have something to say on the matter, and I somehow doubt the good Commander would approve either,” went on Dorian as he turned away to a tray covered in a white cloth. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of fetching breakfast for us both whilst you were sleeping. Your appetite has returned, I trust? You didn’t seem keen on the idea of food last night.”

“I didn’t think it likely to stay down,” nodded Anders as he sat up. Dorian brought the tray over to the bed and set it down upon the coverlet between them as he perched upon the edge of the bed with one leg tucked up beneath himself. He pulled away the cloth to reveal a pile of small pastries and hot sweet bread rolls as well as a pot of coffee.

“I wasn’t sure what you prefer in the way of breakfast, but I thought perhaps this might be light enough not to upset your stomach if it were still feeling sensitive this morning,” said Dorian as he split open a steaming bread roll and slathered it with butter. “I fetched a couple more elfroot potions in case they were needed; they’re on the table next to you.”

Anders glanced at the bedside table at the two potions, then turned to the pot of coffee and poured himself a mug. “I’m much better this morning, thank you,” he replied. “I woke up during the night and it had faded enough I could heal the last myself and then sleep off the after effects.”

“What a useful skill,” observed Dorian. “Though I’d keep quiet about that talent if I were you or everyone will be after hangover cures every time the Chargers come back from a successful patrol - I understand they party pretty hard.” He winked as he helped himself to coffee. “Though I dare say that Inquisitor Trevelyan has much more important things to attend to than relieving the headaches of those poor fools that the Iron Bull drinks under the table.”

Anders laughed and reached for a pastry. “You don’t ever join them over at the Herald’s Rest then?”

“Occasionally,” allowed Dorian. “The beer is atrocious and yet so very drinkable - which is more than can be said for the wine. I’m sure they must keep the good stuff hidden away and only serve the rat’s-piss to me.”

“Maybe I should come with you one evening. I doubt they’d serve rat’s-piss to the Inquisitor - and seeing as they’ve insisted on giving this title to me, the least I can do is make sure my advisors get decent wine to drink,” mused Anders. He shook his head at the thought of what Isabela would say at the idea of him using his position to get drinks for Dorian in the tavern. Likely cheer him on all the way, he reflected.

Dorian laughed. “I should take you up on that! The thought of the expression on Mother Giselle’s face at the idea of her precious Herald of Andraste slumming it in the tavern with the despised Tevinter Magister is just too delicious. You should come if only for that reason alone!”

“She really hates you that much?” said Anders before sipping his coffee. “Oh, Maker, this hits the spot,” he added thankfully. He felt ever so slightly spaced out; a last lingering effect following the migraine, he knew. He hoped it would clear up before the war room meeting later on; hopefully the coffee would help there.

“Glad to hear it,” said Dorian. “You had me worried last night. I was in two minds whether I should fetch Solas or someone else. I don’t panic easily, but you seemed rather ill yesterday afternoon. If you hadn’t asked me to stay....”

“You stayed beside me all the while?” said Anders, a little surprised, as he set his cup down on the bedside table.

“I was _worried_ about you,” repeated Dorian. “Besides, when a handsome man falls into my bed, I’m hardly one to walk away.” He gave Anders a wink. 

Anders paused as he reached for another pastry and glanced up at Dorian, startled; a stray lock of hair fell in his eyes. Before he could brush it out of the way, Dorian had leaned forward and gently swept it aside with a forefinger then tucked it back behind Anders’ ear, his grey eyes steadily holding Anders’ gaze as he then traced his fingertips lightly down the side of his face. Anders found he was holding his breath as Dorian leaned in closer.

“There’s a crumb on your lip,” murmured the Altus as he leaned in closer; sliding his fingers to Anders’ chin, he swept his thumb across Anders’ bottom lip even as he tilted the blond apostate’s face up towards him. His breath was sweet as it ghosted over his face, and Anders closed his eyes reflexively.

Dorian’s fingers slid into his hair and Anders felt him lean in closer; his breath tickled Anders’ ear, and then the Altus murmured, “Breathe.”

Anders drew in breath with a sharp gasp, and Dorian chuckled as he turned his face a little; and then he kissed Anders.

Maybe it was the post-migraine dazedness, but for one reason or another it took Anders a moment to realise just what was going on - and in that moment, he found himself reacting instinctively, closing his eyes and parting his lips with a little moan as Dorian slid his hand around to cup the back of his head, supporting him gently as he explored Anders’ mouth with a gentle yet insistent tongue. 

“Maybe we’ll give them something to gossip about yet, hmm?” suggested Dorian a little breathlessly when he finally pulled away from Anders’ lips. He smiled, then leaned in again, but this time Anders lifted his hands to press them against the Altus’ shoulders, halting him.

“Wait - please,” he said, gasping a little for breath. “I’m - I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” He dropped his gaze to the coverlet of the bed, feeling his cheeks grow hot with shame.

Dorian sat back with a sharp annoyed exhalation. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought -”

“I know, and for that I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen,” said Anders. 

Dorian frowned, then got to his feet and turned away, starting to slowly pace. “Damn it, Trevelyan, I don’t understand you. You blow hot and cold. I honestly don’t know where I stand with you.”

“Please try to understand - it’s not that I don’t want to - I do, Maker help me, I honestly do - but I _can’t_ ,” pleaded Anders. He felt wretched.He’d told the truth; he _did_ want to.

He realised he couldn’t keep up the pretense any more. Coming so soon after Vivienne had finally admitted she’d known who he was pretty much all along, the thought of keeping Dorian in the dark any longer was intolerable, and he couldn’t let this continue.

“Understand?” Dorian laughed disbelievingly. “Trevelyan, I -”

“My name’s not Trevelyan,” said Anders in a low voice. “I’ve never set foot in Ostwick, and almost everything you thought you knew about me is a lie. And I’m sorry for it, and I wish I’d told you from the beginning and to the Void with whatever Cullen and the others think.” He drew his knees up beneath the covers as he hugged himself, hunching over. He couldn’t bear to look at Dorian for fear of what he’d see there.

Dorian turned and stared at him. “I beg your pardon?” he said slowly.

“I’m not Trevelyan,” repeated Anders. He stared at the coverlet over his knees; after a few minutes of silence, the tension in the air became almost unbearable, and he lifted his head slowly, just enough to stare at the Altus from behind the tousled blond hair that fell in his face. Dorian was still staring at him. Anders swallowed hard.

“My name is Anders.”

Dorian stared at him, and slowly the frown gave way to dawning realisation. “You mean _the_ Anders?”

“The one who destroyed the Kirkwall chantry. Yes, that was me,” nodded Anders.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead? You’re rather lively for a corpse,” remarked Dorian as he folded his arms and cocked his head to one side, lifting one hand to smooth his moustache.

“I got better,” quipped Anders, the merest ghost of a smile upon his lips, unable to resist the small jest.

“The scars,” said Dorian. “The ones I saw on your chest when you awoke after Haven.”

Anders nodded. “I _should_ have died. But I didn’t.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Dorian.

“I wanted to tell you before. Back in Haven,” said Anders. 

“But none of the others would let you because they didn’t trust me,” Dorian waved a hand dismissively. “What’s changed? Why tell me now?”

“Because you deserve to know why I - why I can’t do this,” said Anders miserably. “Why I keep pushing you away. And because - because I’m sick of living a lie, of being someone I’m not. I’m no Herald of Andraste - I’m a murderer, why would Andraste pick someone like me? But I’ve seen the looks on their faces - they think I’m going to save everyone, that I have all the answers, that I’m going to beat Corypheus and -”

His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands. “And I’m scared, and lonely, and you looked after me and I’ve felt so guilty for deceiving you, and - and-” He hiccuped, and suddenly realised he was crying. Maker, he was a mess. He should have known better. He always felt so raw and vulnerable after a migraine and his defenses were stripped away, compounded by the fact that yes, damn it, he was attracted to Dorian - far more than was prudent. And now his nose was running, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that were wracking his body, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to land himself with a blinding headache again, and then he’d miss the war room council and Cullen would come looking for him and -

A warm hand came to rest reassuringly on his shoulder; it squeezed lightly as the mattress dipped slightly right next to him, and then there was an arm around his shoulders and Dorian was offering him a handkerchief. He’d removed the tray whilst Anders was preoccupied, and now he was regarding Anders with eyes that were gentle with friendly concern.

“Were you afraid I’d turn away from you when I finally found out who you were? Anders, do you really think we hadn’t heard of you up in Tevinter? Trust me, it would take far more than blowing up a Southern chantry to put me off you. I’ve become rather fond of you, in my own way. Is that what this is all about?” said Dorian.

“I’ve killed hundreds,” said Anders, hunching in on himself. “Innocent people. The Mage-Templar War was all my fault.”

“You don’t seem proud of it, which I’d say is a good thing,” said Dorian gently. “I’ve heard something of what went on in Kirkwall, and I’ve read that 'Tale of the Champion' book that Varric wrote; was it an accurate portrayal of events?”

“Mostly,” Anders sniffed. “There’s a lot he left out - a lot you don’t know.”

“Then maybe you should start at the beginning?” suggested Dorian, giving Anders’ shoulders a gentle squeeze.

Anders stared into Dorian’s eyes, and after a moment he nodded hesitantly. “Alright,” he said quietly.

He told Dorian everything. He owed him that much.


	12. Chapter 12

Anders stared down at the map on the war room table and tried to concentrate on what Leliana was saying. Something about wardens disappearing; he knew he should be worried about that. He frowned as he stared at the map, at the little metal figurines dotted here and there denoting Inquisition forces. Outwardly he appeared to be considering the matter; inwardly he was distracted, aware of Dorian’s silent presence on the other side of the table near the corner, next to Josephine.

The Altus Tevinter had said little after Anders had finished explaining everything. Anders had left nothing out - Justice, going to Kirkwall, meeting Hawke, Karl (and Maker, he couldn’t help it, he’d cried over Karl - he was a mess today, and he’d wondered how he’d make it through the war room council later, but though Dorian had said nothing he’d rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed sympathetically); the ill-fated trip into the Deep Roads and Carver going to the Wardens. He’d told him about Hawke and Fenris.

Dorian had got to his feet then and begun pacing silently, waving to Anders to continue. He’d tried to describe how Justice slowly became Vengeance, the blackouts - Ella and how close he came to killing her. 

Dorian showed more signs of animation when Anders described the journey into the Vinmark Mountains and their encounter with Corypheus, the way the ancient Tevinter Magister sought to possess his mind. He’d quizzed Anders intently over that; Anders had answered him frankly and openly, and showed him the hair-fine scars he still bore about his wrists and ankles even now where he’d once been bound with lyrium wire in the Fade. Dorian had held Anders’ hand steady as he studied the thin scars; they were barely noticeable against Anders’ pale skin. Anders had been all too keenly aware of the warmth of Dorian’s fingers as they pressed against his wrist, his pulse leaping as his heartbeat quickened.

The Altus had pressed him to remember every little detail - even some he’d forgotten over the years. Anders had the nasty suspicion he might have nightmares when next he slept; he’d fought hard to put those events behind him, but Dorian had a knack of drawing everything out of him, his questioning prompting old memories. Anders suspected he’d told Dorian far more than he’d even managed to recall for Cullen and Leliana when they debriefed him about the events at Haven.

They should have trusted Dorian more. Should have let him tell the Altus the truth. Anders could practically _see_ the wheels spinning in Dorian’s head, processing the information as he made his way to his desk and began to make copious notes on everything Anders could tell him, gesturing for Anders to continue and questioning him further.

Anders was exhausted by the time Dorian had finished interrogating him. Relating the rest of the events in Kirkwall, those nightmarish last days in which he seemed driven like an automaton under Vengeance’s will, not sleeping, staggering on, sleep deprivation only making it harder to resist every time the spirit took over and yet in the times in between, he couldn’t tell what was him, what was the spirit, until he came to himself on the flagstones of the Gallows with Hawke’s blade in his back and his lungs filling with blood, wondering why he was still alive.

“Solas will likely want to talk to you about Vengeance trapping your mind in the Fade, if he hasn’t already,” Dorian had remarked as Anders sipped at cold coffee, his throat dry after talking so long. “I honestly don’t know what to make of this ‘Witch of the Wilds’ business.”

“Cullen has met her daughter, I think,” Anders had replied. “At least, from what little he’s said. He doesn’t talk much about Kinloch.” He stared down into his mug at the cold black liquid, a little afraid now to look up at Dorian. Though he’d been gentle and sympathetic over Karl, Anders had felt him withdraw when he’d spoken of Hawke and Fenris.

There’d been an uncomfortable silence for a while, broken finally by Dorian who merely remarked that they should head towards the war room or they would be late for the meeting. Anders’ eyes were red from crying; he splashed a little cold water on his face to refresh himself, then Dorian ascertained the coast was clear before they slipped from Dorian’s room. The Altus insisted Anders go on ahead in case their arriving together aroused suspicion; Anders arrived to find Cullen was the first one there, as ever. 

Dorian arrived last, some ten minutes after Varric; he’d murmured an apology and something about being caught up in some research.

Now, as Anders stared at the war room table, he was keenly aware of Dorian’s presence even as Cullen relayed a report from Scout Harding on rumoured Warden movements through eastern Orlais.

“Does Blackwall have anything to say about that?” asked Anders absently as his eyes sought out the small figure that denoted Harding’s current camp; he frowned as he noticed it was quite close to Lake Calenhad. He trailed a finger from the little metal piece to the dot marking the tower at Kinloch; perhaps a day’s walk from the camp. He was aware of Cullen moving restlessly beside him. He didn’t look up; he knew all too well that the Commander’s hand would be rubbing distractedly at the back of his neck in discomfort. Anders lifted his hand away and straightened.

“Apparently he’d been operating alone, recruiting, so he was out of touch with the other Wardens and is as mystified as we are,” replied Josephine.

“Is he indeed?” said Anders, glancing to Leliana. “Funny that.”

Leliana frowned slightly and darted a brief, meaningful look in Dorian’s direction then back at Anders in clear warning.

Anders folded his arms and shot Leliana a challenging look, glancing very pointedly at Dorian then back at Leliana; her frown deepened.

“Of course, Blackwall wouldn’t have a clue what’s up with the Wardens; he doesn’t even recognise a Warden when one’s standing in front of him,” went on Anders; Josephine and Cullen were now regarding him with surprise whilst Varric was giving Dorian the side-eye speculatively. Vivienne was frowning at him thoughtfully; the Iron Bull’s face was unreadable. Solas was merely staring at Anders with one eyebrow slightly raised. Cassandra was frowning and slowly shaking her head.

“Inquisitor -” began Josephine; Cullen cleared his throat.

“Trevelyan, with all due respect -” the Commander began.

“I think we can drop the pretence,” Anders said irritably as he stared back down at the table and pretended not to see Vivienne narrowing her eyes at him. “We all know that’s not my name.”

There was shock and then Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine were all talking at once. Varric glanced up at Dorian who was staring at Anders.

Anders let them carry on for a moment then suddenly slammed a hand down on the table, hard enough to make the little figurines jump. The mark in his hand flared suddenly with bright green light that lit up his face as he glared at them, his eyes flashing angrily. “Enough!” he shouted as he stared around at them all. “Yes, Dorian knows. I told him. I’m sick and tired of living a lie, and frankly I’d trust my life in his hands over those of Blackwall any day - Dorian, at least has never lied to me about who and what he is.” He let his gaze dart in Dorian’s direction and noted that Dorian had unconsciously straightened his shoulders at Anders’ words. 

Vivienne appeared to be getting over her surprise and was regarding Dorian with a distinctly unfriendly look that the Altus was affecting not to notice. 

“I’m not going to continue with this charade,” Anders went on. “Vivienne made it quite clear she knew who I was; Dorian and Blackwall are the only ones who were still in the dark. It was my decision to tell Dorian; it’s important that _all_ my advisors are in possession of all the facts, and Dorian _needs_ to know all I know of Corypheus.”

“You could have done so without revealing who you are,” said Leliana.

“Glad to know you trust me so much with _that_ information but not with the identity of the Inquisitor which, it seems, you all knew long ago but neglected to inform me of,” said Dorian archly. “Not that it actually matters to me personally whether we call him Trevelyan or Anders, but it strikes me that what I’ve learned of his previous encounters with Corypheus would have been useful to know and discuss before the destruction at Haven, hmm?”

“It was never my choice to live a lie,” said Anders. “I wasn’t given a choice in the matter. It was decided for me; the Inquisition was too new, too weak. It was felt that if the news got out, then it would harm what progress it had made in gaining allies.”

“And that has not changed; if it were known outside this room that the leader of the Inquisition were the same man who started the Mage-Templar War, it would do incalculable damage to our cause,” argued Leliana.

“Particularly after taking in the mages,” agreed Josephine. “We have so few alliances thus far, and such a revelation would weaken them.”

“I never asked to be made Inquisitor,” Anders pointed out. “You did that in full knowledge of who and what I am. You could have hung me after I’d closed the Breach; you chose to let me live. You could have made me Tranquil; there’s not a damned thing I could have done to stop you, and at least I would have been more useful to you than a corpse on a gibbet. But you chose to let me live, with my mind intact - and then took it into your heads to make me Inquisitor. Sooner or later someone outside this room will recognise me, and then you’ll have to deal with the fall-out. Wouldn’t it be better to be open about it now, instead of trying to mitigate it later?”

“We would not have hung you,” argued Cassandra. “I told you at Haven that we would not kill you.”

“I bet you thought about making me Tranquil though,” said Anders.

“It was never discussed in my hearing, and I wouldn’t have agreed,” said Dorian. “It wouldn’t have mattered to me even if I’d known who you were - Tranquility is a barbaric practice, and I wouldn’t have countenanced it for _any_ mage.”

“Despite my feelings over what you have done in the past, Inquisitor, I must concur with Dorian. I, too, would not have agreed,” said Vivienne.

“It was never discussed,” said Cullen heavily. “You were never at risk of being made Tranquil, Anders.”

“Can you imagine the outcry if we had hung or made Tranquil the Herald of Andraste?” said Leliana.

“You don’t really believe I’m the Chosen of Andraste,” said Anders, folding his arms. He could feel the mark in his hand pulsing painfully, and his headache was threatening to return. This talk of hanging and Tranquility - despite the reassurances it was never a serious threat - had him very much on edge and he was having to fight hard against the feeling that he was hemmed in and trapped. He glanced around at the others.

Cassandra’s face held a look of fierce determination, and with a sinking heart he realised that she very likely _did_ believe it. But the thoughtful look on Cullen’s face was worse. Maker, if _Cullen_ believed it then there was no hope for him. He’d smother to death under their misplaced belief.

“Perhaps,” said Leliana, tapping her lip thoughtfully.

“Leliana, not you too!” he protested. She held her hand up to forestall him.

“We could spin this as a redemption story. The murderer redeemed by Andraste Herself.”

“That would take some very creative persuasion,” said Josephine dubiously. “Who could we approach first? The Chantry would never swallow it directly.”

“Which of our allies would be most amenable and least upset by such a revelation?” pondered Cullen.

Anders leaned on the table, staring down at the map blindly as the others began to discuss the matter over his head, as though he weren’t even there. It was just like being back in Haven, only apparently now he didn’t have to worry about anyone at the table wanting to execute him.

His eyes slowly focused on the map beneath his hands; they were resting on the Free Marches. A little to the right of his little finger he could make out the neatly-inscribed name of Starkhaven. He frowned, an idea slowly forming.

“Blondie? You OK?” said Varric from beside his elbow.

“Sebastian,” said Anders quietly.

“Chantry Boy?” said Varric. “What’s he got to do with this?”

Anders straightened. “Josephine, have we sent emissaries to Starkhaven?”

Josephine and Leliana exchanged startled glances. “To Prince Vael? Not yet; Starkhaven has been openly hostile towards the Seekers,” the Antivan ambassador replied. 

“Send word to Prince Vael,” said Anders. “Tell him ‘Blondie sends his regards.’”

Cullen and Leliana exchanged dubious glances, but Varric began to chuckle.

“In the meantime, we need to find out what’s happening with the Wardens,” Anders went on. “Have the scouts focus on that. There’s something going on there, and I want to know what.” He grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt a warning stab of pain at the back of his skull. “If there’s nothing further?”

“Inquisitor, are you alright?” asked Josephine. He waved her away.

“A headache, nothing more. If I’m not needed any further, I’ll be in my quarters.”

“Of course,” said Josephine with a slight nod. “I believe we are done here.”

Anders was aware of Dorian’s eyes on him as he left the war room.


	13. Chapter 13

There was a fresh pot of tea on his desk when he arrived in his room, standing next to a pile of reports. He groaned; he’d never asked for all the paperwork that came with being Inquisitor, just as he’d never asked for the position in the first place.

He sighed, then seated himself behind his desk, pouring himself a large mug of tea and reaching for the first report. The tea was very strong and had a slightly bitter aftertaste; he grimaced slightly and stirred in a spoonful of honey as his eyes scanned the report, then sipped slowly as he frowned. He reached for another report, then the third; they all reported the same thing - no sign of Wardens, only hints of places they might have been.

His head was still aching; he considered taking an elfroot potion, but decided to try and make his way through the reports first. He poured himself another cup of tea, sweetening it before drinking.

He was about halfway through the mug and two-thirds of his way through the stack of reports when a sudden pain shot through his abdomen, twisting it painfully. He clutched his stomach with a stifled groan as he dropped the mug, tea spilling across the floor unheeded as he managed to pull himself upright. Another cramp had him doubling over, gasping as he pressed his hand against his stomach and clutched at the edge of the desk. He tried to remember what he’d had to eat that morning; a couple of pastries with Dorian and a cup of coffee besides the tea. Nothing there that could have caused a reaction like this.

He took a couple of steps then fell to his knees as another agonising pain lanced through him. He was sweating now, feeling somehow both burning hot and yet freezing cold at the same time as a shiver ran through him.

He was going to be sick.

He reached out blindly and managed to grab the waste basket just before he threw up, bile flooding his nose and his mouth as his stomach twisted, trying to expel everything he’d eaten or drank; continuing to twist painfully even with nothing left to purge.

Something was wrong; very wrong. He tried to tally his symptoms, work out what was wrong as he reached inside with his healer’s senses; another cramp distracted him. The carpet hit his cheek; he wrapped both arms around his torso and drew his knees up to try and relieve the excruciating pain as he whimpered, trying not to scream. Maker, it _hurt_.

The tea. What was in that tea? It had been bitter and very strong - strong enough to mask the flavour of something else perhaps?

He tried to sit up but another spasm racked his body and he cried out, hunching in on himself. He couldn’t think straight.

His world was reduced to the agony in his midriff and abdomen; it was hard to breathe through the waves of pain. All he could do was lie there; barely aware of anything other than the agony.

“Inquisitor? Anders!”

Voices. A hand on his shoulder.

“Get him onto the bed. Call the healer, quickly!”

Strong arms lifting him; he cried out, though he didn’t mean to.

“Hush, easy, I’ve got you.” A familiar voice... Cullen? “Yes, it’s me. Just hold on, Anders. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Hurts,” he managed to gasp. “Poisoned. Magebane. Maybe...something else too.”

Swearing in what sounded like Nevarran... the Seeker? “Commander, the tea.”

“Find out who made it. Arrest the kitchen staff and have them all questioned. I want to know who is behind this, _now._ ” Anger in Cullen’s voice, even as the hand stroking the hair back from Anders’ forehead was gentle.

He clutched his stomach, writhing in agony; he couldn’t help the faint whimper that escaped through his gritted teeth.

He lost all awareness for a time; there were brief lucid moments in which he was aware of people in his room; a large, gentle hand holding one of his as someone bathed his forehead with cool water. Nothing would stay down. Easier to sleep; it hurt less to sleep.

He had no idea how long he remained like that; only that finally he opened his eyes and the pain was gone. He felt wrung out and exhausted but finally, thankfully clear-minded. He stared at the patterned damask canopy of his bed and drew a deep breath that was thankfully free of pain.

Someone was holding his left hand loosely; as he turned his head on the pillow, the fingers tightened briefly.

“Anders?”

It was Cullen, the Commander sat in a chair beside the bed, holding Anders’ hand gently. He looked almost as rough as Anders felt, his eyes bloodshot and dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“Cullen.” Anders’ voice was little more than a rough croak, his throat parched.

“Don’t try to talk yet,” Cullen urged him as he reached for a glass of water. He helped Anders to sit up and set the glass against his lips, helping him to drink. Anders felt so weak and helpless as he rested against Cullen and slowly sipped at the water until Cullen finally lowered the glass. “Better?”

“Much,” Anders nodded, and was glad a little strength had returned to his voice.

Cullen fluffed up his pillows so Anders was supported in a more upright position before he took his seat again.

“What happened?” Anders asked.

“Poisoning,” answered Cullen, his expression serious and sombre. “Magebane and deathroot. You, Vivienne and Dorian, though you were the worst affected. It was touch and go for a while; we honestly thought we’d lose you. It seems one of the mages from Redcliffe recognised you.” He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly discomforted. “We should have foreseen this might happen and taken steps to prevent it.”

“So the inner circle aren’t the only ones who know who I am,” Anders said quietly. “I told you it would get out eventually.”

“Yes, well, we’d hoped it wouldn’t be this soon,” said Cullen ruefully. 

“How long was I out?” asked Anders as he shifted slightly in the bed, trying to sit up properly. Maker, he was weak as a kitten.

“Over a week,” said Cullen. “Vivienne was up and about after only a couple of days; we guess she only got a small amount - likely that afternoon you both had tea together. Dorian was worse; he was only out of his bed the day before yesterday. We think it was in the pot of coffee; likely a larger dose as the coffee would have masked the taste far better. But you had three doses.”

“So they didn’t care who else they killed, as long as they got me,” said Anders quietly.

“The senior mages have been very co-operative,” said Cullen. “It’s in their own interest to weed out anyone else who’s willing to put other people’s lives at risk for the sake of one man, and the majority of the mages are grateful that the Inquisition has given them this second chance - and far more freedom here than they ever had in the Circle.” He glanced away for a moment, his hand still rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I can’t say as I was too happy about that at first, but I can’t deny that your way has... benefited us all. I can see that perhaps it has far more merits than I had thought possible.”

“You mean, there hasn’t been a mass outbreak of abominations and blood magic the moment you treat mages like normal human beings?” said Anders drily. “Fancy that.”

“Yes, well....” Cullen’s voice trailed off as he glanced away, unable to quite meet Anders’ eyes. He drew a breath then straightened and he finally glanced. back. “We had help from Cole. He seems to have a most uncanny knack of ferreting out those most likely to try something similar. Unfortunately it seems your would-be murderer had told anyone who would listen just exactly who you are; that cat’s well and truly out of the bag now I’m afraid.”

Anders nodded. He knew it would happen; unlike Cullen, he was only surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.

“The Iron Bull is beside himself,” went on Cullen. “Says he should have seen it coming and that he’s failed you as your bodyguard and that from now on he will taste everything prepared for you before it reaches your table.”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” said Anders. “Do the Chargers have their own cook?”

“I believe so,” said Cullen frowning.

“Then that’s settled; from now on the Charger’s cook is the Inquisitor’s personal chef,” Anders shrugged.

“That might work,” said Cullen, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll put that to him.”

“Any word on the Wardens?” asked Anders. He was beginning to feel exhausted even after only such a short period of time awake.

“Varric says he has a contact he’s chasing up that might give us a lead,” replied Cullen.

“Oh... that’s good,” said Anders as he let himself sink back against the pillows.

“Forgive me, you’re still not fully recovered,” said Cullen as he rose to his feet. “I should let you rest.”

“And you should go rest too,” said Anders as he closed his eyes. He heard Cullen moving around the room and the door opening. “Oh, Cullen?” he called out.

“Yes?” replied Cullen as he paused by the door.

“That’s an order, Commander.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” replied Cullen. Anders could hear the smile in his voice and could just picture it. 

He grinned, then let himself relax. Sleep followed very swiftly afterwards.

 

***

It took him a couple of days to get back properly on his feet again; he experienced a lingering weakness and found he tired easily. Cullen and Cassandra delegated most of his work between them, only bringing the most important documents to him for his scrawled signature. He still signed them as Trevelyan; though his true identity was slowly becoming general knowledge around Skyhold, they were trying to avoid the wider world finding out for as long as possible.

There’d been trouble with a few of the templars; Cullen had had to quietly change a few of the rosters to shift the troublemakers to less sensitive duties.

War room discussions were kept to a minimum and held for a time in Anders’ rooms. He was alarmed to see how pale Dorian looked when he arrived to the first such meeting, but the Altus shook off Anders’ expression of concern and merely clasped Anders’ hand firmly between his own as he quietly declared how glad he was to see Anders alive and on his feet; a sentiment echoed by Vivienne when she arrived.

“Darling, forgive me; I had no idea,” she exclaimed. “From now on I shall never serve you a drop of tea that has not been brewed by my own hands, I swear!”

“Agreed,” nodded Dorian grimly.

Iron Bull agreed readily to his cook serving the Inquisitor personally; the woman - a sturdy dwarf - looked Anders up and down, sniffed, then declared he was too skinny and she’d soon put meat on his bones. She turned out to be a damned fine chef, and the inner circle agreed she was a marvellous asset to the Inquisition - particularly Josephine after she discovered that Brecca could make a certain Antivan dessert that the Ambassador was particularly fond of.

Word came that Prince Vael himself had elected to come to Skyhold to discuss a possible treaty of alliance with the Inquisition; Anders found himself feeling nervous yet looking forward to seeing the former priest once more. 

When he was well enough to leave his rooms, Cullen escorted him to the small Chantry where Anders had a long talk with Mother Giselle. He supposed he should have realised she’d guessed his true identity; as it transpired, it had been as he lay slowly recovering in the tent after Haven’s destruction that she had seen his scars and worked out who he was. It made certain things she’d said suddenly make sense.

She had already decided for herself that Andraste Herself must have chosen to redeem him, and that the mark in his hand was the sign of that redemption and of the power of Her grace - that no-one was beyond salvation through Her and the Maker. In Mother Giselle, it transpired, they had exactly the means by which to spread the story to those other Chantries most likely to react favourably to their story. His recovery from poisoning was merely another sign of the favour in which he was held by Andraste.

Anders had left the meeting feeling very uncomfortable and out of his depth.

He had the distinct impression Varric was avoiding him; Cullen had told him the dwarf had barely left his side as he lay delirious, but from the moment Anders was back on his feet the dwarf always seemed to be somewhere else - Anders just missed him in the Great Hall, or there was an apology delivered for a war room meeting missed as some other urgent matter always came up at the last moment.

He finally decided enough was enough after a panting messenger ran up just after a war room meeting had started with yet another apology for Varric’s absence. Leliana and Josephine exchanged a glance and Cullen looked away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Right, that’s it,” Anders said. “Meeting adjourned; we’ll hold it later. I’m going to find Varric.”

The others looked at each other, but the Commander merely inclined his head as he gathered up his reports. “As you wish. After lunch perhaps?”

Anders’ long legs carried him swiftly through the Great Hall; the table near the fire that Varric had claimed for his own was unattended however. He was not in either courtyard, nor the garden by the Chantry. No-one had seen him in the library, and he was not in the stables talking to Blackwall either. The firing range was empty.

Anders finally cornered the dwarf on the battlements; as he spotted Anders striding towards him, he lifted his hands as if in surrender.

“Now, before you go getting the wrong idea, Blondie, I just want you to calm down and take a deep breath,” said the dwarf. That brought Anders up short, and he narrowed his eyes at Varric.

“What have you done?” he asked slowly.

“I told you I had a contact who might be able to help us with this little problem about missing Wardens,” began Varric slowly. 

“Go on,” said Anders, folding his arms.

“Well, it took me a while to track him down, but I managed to get hold of him, and he agreed to come meet you,” went on Varric. Anders tapped his foot.

“And that’s a reason to be avoiding me?” he said. Varric winced.

“Not _avoiding_ , exactly,” he protested. “More a case of -”

“Hello, Anders,” said a familiar voice from behind them.

Anders stiffened. Slowly, unwillingly, he turned around.

Hawke leaned against the battlements, his arms folded and his expression unreadable.

“Did you miss me?”


	14. Chapter 14

Anders couldn’t breathe. It was like there were a tight band around his chest. For a moment, he thought his heart had stopped. _This is the point where I should faint, if this were one of Varric’s stories,_ he found himself thinking. But of course, he didn’t do anything as melodramatic as that. Consciousness stubbornly refused to flee. He could only stare at Hawke in shock.

Something must have shown in his face, because suddenly Varric was there, patting him gently and saying words that only slowly began to penetrate through the loud roaring in Anders’ ears.

“...Blondie? C’mon, take it easy for me, breathe, OK? Just breathe. Blondie? C’mon Blondie, snap out of it, it’s just Hawke!”

Hawke remained where he was, not moving as Varric tried to guide Anders back to sit on the stone bench. He made no move to assist as the dwarf gave up trying to get him to sit down and instead pushed a bottle of something into Anders’ hand and tried to bring him out of his sudden shock at seeing the last person he would have expected to see here.

“I followed you, you know,” said Hawke in a conversational tone of voice. “You were always a step ahead though, and I got delayed on the road. By the time I got to Haven, all anyone was talking about was the total destruction of the Temple of Ashes and the deaths of everyone there. The innkeeper’s wife told me a man meeting your description had left for the temple the previous day. When I saw Pounce, I knew it had to be you. Knew you had to be dead.”

He finally stirred and took a step towards Anders. “It took me three weeks to find Fenris. Then I had to break the news to him that you were dead. He reacted much as you’re doing now; I was afraid the news was going to kill him on the spot. He finally turned away from me and just... crumpled, without a word. He’s not spoken since. He’s with Isabela. I haven’t seen either of them since they departed Denerim a month after I found him.”

Anders couldn’t take his eyes off Hawke as the Champion took another step closer. He had managed to draw a breath, but the air felt too thin, like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough to get it into his lungs. He could feel his fingertips tingling.

“And then the word came that Andraste Herself had sent a Herald, and he was leading a new Inquisition. He’d closed the Breach in the sky. Someone called Trevelyan from Ostwick; some poor sod who’d stumbled out of a rift into the ruins of the temple. It meant nothing to me at the time, though I was glad he’d come from one of the few Circles not to be Annulled. I thought, ‘Anders would be happy for him - he’d laugh at the idea of a mage being Andraste’s Herald.’” Hawke smiled, but Anders found he couldn’t answer it. His chest was heaving as he tried to breathe.

“And then this demon apparently showed up at Haven, along with an army of templars infected with red lyrium - just like our old friend Meredith - and it sounds remarkably like our other old friend, Corypheus. Which is impossible, because we killed Corypheus. And this Herald - this Trevelyan chap - dumps half a mountain on him, then rises seemingly from the dead to lead everyone to an ancient elven fortress no-one knew about. They make him Inquisitor.” Hawke was standing very close to him now; Anders could feel the other man’s breath on his face, He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Hawke’s intense blue gaze.

“Imagine my surprise when I get a letter from Varric, telling me that this Inquisitor Trevelyan fellow is none other than the man I’d been grieving for months. _You._ ”

Suddenly Hawke’s hands were fisted in his tunic and Anders’ back slammed into a hard stone merlon as he was bent backwards over the battlements. “I _grieved for you!!_ ” he screamed into Anders’ face. “I thought you were _dead!_ All this time, and not one word - not _one_ to tell me you were alive!” He glared down at Anders, his eyes eyes ablaze with fury. “Well? Have you not one word to say for yourself? Nothing at all?” 

Anders’ breathing had become a frantic panting, his lips and fingers numb and tingling. As spots began to swim across his vision, he suddenly realised he was hyperventilating. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t get anything out. He felt his knees give way, Hawke’s furiously-bright blue eyes following him down into the darkness.

He felt something wet on his face. He was lying on his back, his head in someone’s lap; he felt dizzy, disoriented, and his chest hurt a little. 

He could feel hands still clutching at his tunic, the fabric bunched up and held tight in fists that held desperately tight - as if afraid he would disappear the moment they let go, perhaps. Anders opened his eyes slowly to find Hawke was hunched over him, weeping bitterly; and he felt a sharp pang of guilt stab through his heart.

He managed to lift a hand to gently stroke Hawke’s cheek, and the man shuddered before disentangling one hand from Anders’ tunic to cradle Anders’ hand against his wet cheek, turning his head a little to kiss the palm of Anders’ hand.

“I thought you were dead,” sobbed Hawke.

“I’m sorry,” breathed Anders. He should be crying too, he thought, but realised that he felt too numb with shock to weep. Of all the people to find him, he had never dreamed Hawke would be one of them, though he should have. Perhaps tears would come later, but for now all he could do was stare up at Hawke as the other man wept over him.

He heard footsteps; voices of alarm. “Inquisitor! Trevelyan!”

Hawke glanced away as he straightened, one hand still clutched in Anders’ tunic. 

Cullen reached the top of the steps first. “Trevelyan, are you....” He broke off as he stared at Hawke. “Champion?”

Hawke drew a breath then glanced up at the Commander. He managed a smile, though his eyes were still red. “Hello, Cullen,” he replied.

“The Inquisitor, is he -” exclaimed Dorian as he reached the top of the stairs, Cassandra a step behind. “Who is this?”

“The Champion of Kirkwall?” exclaimed Cassandra, her eyes widening in surprise before she turned to Varric, her eyes narrowing. “You! You knew where he was all along!” she exclaimed.

“Now, Seeker, let’s not do anything hasty,” said Varric as he backed away slowly.

“Before people start shouting at each other, would someone help me up, please?” Anders said weakly. Cullen and Dorian reached forward simultaneously but it was Hawke who lifted him gently to his feet as the Champion rose, keeping one arm around Anders’ waist as Anders leaned in against him.

“Easy there, love,” Hawke said gently as Anders stumbled slightly. “What’s wrong?”

Anders was aware of Dorian staring sharply at him as Hawke called him ‘love’.

“Anders was poisoned,” said Cullen quietly. “He hasn’t yet recovered his full strength.”

Hawke’s arm tightened around Anders. 

“I’m alright now,” Anders reassured him hastily; Hawke didn’t relax however as he stared at Cullen and Dorian suspiciously. Anders sighed. “Look... can we have this discussion inside?” he went on. “I really don’t want to have to do this out here where everyone can see. Let’s go to my rooms, have something sent up, and we can talk there.”

“I want a word with Varric,” said Cassandra coldly.

“I’d rather you came with us, Cassandra,” answered Anders quietly. “You’ve been wanting to speak to the Champion for years - now’s your chance.”

Cassandra glanced at him, then at Hawke, and then suddenly blushed. Anders blinked at her; that was decidedly not the reaction he’d expected. He decided to puzzle it over later however, as they adjourned to his rooms.

He wished Varric had told him about this before he’d written to the Champion. This was not the way he would have wanted to handle it - the last thing he needed was to have Garrett Hawke sprung on him as a sudden surprise when he were still barely up and about after nearly dying of magebane and deathroot. He supposed he should be grateful Hawke hadn’t shown up whilst he were still confined to bed or worse, but he hated this feeling of their reuniting under the watchful eyes of the inner circle. He was acutely aware of Dorian’s eyes on him in particular, but there was no way that he could see that he could speak privately to Dorian - and what would he say, in any case? 

He wanted a while alone with Hawke. He wanted time to try and explain himself - and to reassure Hawke just how much he’d missed him. But as he took his seat behind his desk and Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian and Varric took up what had become their customary places during war room meetings until Anders had recovered enough for them to resume using the actual war room once more - all except Hawke, who frowned then chose to remain standing, pacing slowly, and didn’t _that_ make Anders nervous (as if he weren’t already) - Anders sighed inwardly, and resigned himself to what could be quite the unpleasant meeting.

Anders introduced his advisors; Hawke’s frown deepened when Anders introduced the Tevinter Altus, and Anders sighed inwardly. Dorian’s expression was neutral, but his eyes glittered dangerously as he inclined his head politely towards Hawke upon being introduced before flicking to Anders.

“So this is Varric’s contact with the wardens?” said Cassandra. Hawke barked a humourless laugh.

“Is that what Varric told you I am?” he asked.

“Varric didn’t tell me anything,” said Anders quietly.

“I _meant_ to, Blondie!” protested Varric. “Only, you were so sick, and then there just never seemed to be a good time -”

“Any time would have been a better time than turning around and finding him standing right there, Varric. Any time at all.”

“Not pleased to see me after all then?” said Hawke heavily. Anders turned to him, his eyes widening.

“Maker, no, that’s not what I meant at all!” he exclaimed as he leapt to his feet. “I just - love, it was a shock! I was unprepared, that’s all!”

“I’m still ‘love’ to you then?” said Hawke gently. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Anders stared at Hawke then turned away, closing his eyes briefly. 

This wasn’t the way this was supposed to have happened - _any_ of it.

“I knew Cassandra was still looking for you,” he said quietly as he crossed slowly to the balcony windows and stared out at the mountains. “I didn’t know why, yet. I didn’t dare write - I wanted to keep her as far away from you as possible. At that point, I was certain that the moment I ceased to be of any further use to the Inquisition I would find a noose about my throat. Better that you should have thought me already dead, than that you should arrive in time to watch me die. Or made Tranquil.”

He heard Cullen stir but he turned and forestalled him with his hand upraised; the anchor flared briefly, and Hawke stared at it, transfixed. Anders noticed the direction of his gaze and turned back towards him.

“Yes, it’s true. I stumbled out of a rift with this mark embedded in my hand. I don’t know why or how I lived. I feel like I must be the punchline to the biggest joke in history. Me, the Kirkwall Butcher, Andraste’s Herald?” He stared down at the mark, then back at Hawke.

“Cassandra told me, once the Breach was closed, that they were going to let me live. But I had no chance to write and tell you I was still alive then - Corypheus attacked that very evening.”

“It’s true then? Corypheus really _has_ returned?” asked Hawke, frowning. Anders nodded.

“I saw him. I faced him. It’s really him. And yes, we brought half the mountainside down on him and buried him with Haven - but that’s not the last we’ll see of him. We brought the mages out of Redcliffe, but he has an army of templars marching with him, as well as Tevinter magisters called Venatori. He’s using red lyrium - and he has an archdemon with him. The red templars are led by someone you might remember - our old friend Samson.”

“Ah. I always wondered what happened to him. Shifty little sod. It shouldn’t surprise me that he got caught up in this red lyrium business,” replied Hawke. “So, that’s why you’re looking for the Wardens? The archdemon?”

“Yes,” answered Anders. He hadn’t missed the sidelong glance Hawke had given Dorian at mention of magisters, nor the way Dorian instantly bristled at the unspoken suspicion.

“You’ve been here at Skyhold a while now though. You could have written.”

“I - I _wanted_ to; Maker knows, I _tried_. I sat down to write to you so many times, but....” Anders dropped his gaze. “I was afraid you... you wouldn’t forgive me. For running away. Again.”

He was aware of Hawke staring at him but couldn’t lift his eyes to meet his gaze.

Cullen cleared his throat “Yes, well, I can see that you two will have a lot of catching up to do, Inquisitor,” he said awkwardly. “But for now, perhaps we could address this matter of Hawke’s Warden contact?”

Hawke wandered over to the balcony and leaned on it.. “This view reminds me of our home in Kirkwall,” he said quietly.

Anders followed and leaned against the balcony balustrade. “I remember,” he nodded.

“I loved it at first,” said Hawke. “But after a while all I could see were the people depending on me.”

“You’re lucky it was just a single city, love,” said Anders ruefully. “I have half of Thedas looking to me.” He turned and leaned on the balcony next to Hawke, his hands clasped together as he looked out over Skyhold. “It terrifies me,” he confessed quietly. “It shouldn’t be me. I’m the last person who should be doing this.” He glanced sideways at Hawke. “Cassandra wanted you for this - to be Inquisitor. She couldn’t find you, and... I couldn’t let this land on you. You’ve had enough. And after all, I have this mark.” He looked down at the glowing green anchor in his palm as it pulsed a baleful green, then slowly he closed his hand into a fist, hiding the light.

“You do. And you’re right; I _have_ had enough. I just wanted a quiet life, away from... all of this,” nodded Hawke as he gestured towards the bustle of Skyhold before them. “I... should thank you for keeping her off my back, I suppose.” He returned Anders’ gaze. “How are you bearing up?” he asked softly. “With all this?”

Anders laughed softly. “I feel like I was walking down a staircase and I missed a step. I have only the barest idea of what I’m doing. I’ve got good advisers, but at the end of the day, it’s all down to me. I’ve got this mark, and I have to take down Corypheus somehow. He won’t stop until I’m dead, and I... find I’m rather fond of living.”

“You’re doing everything you can to protect them,” said Hawke heavily. 

“Does it ever get any easier?” asked Anders quietly. Hawke laughed bitterly.

“I’ll let you know,” he said. He straightened slowly. “I don’t envy you, love. But I’ll help you however I can... if you want me here, that is?” There was an uncertainty to his voice that made Anders’ heart ache.

“Love, of course I do,” he said gently as he straightened and turned to Hawke. The Champion rested his hands on Anders’ hip as Anders draped his arms around the other man’s neck. “You have no idea how much I’ve dreamed about you. I missed you so much, it hurt. It still hurts. I’m so terribly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I haven’t walked away yet, “ Hawke pointed out. “Nor will I. You’re stuck with me.” He grinned, that mischievous grin that Anders had fallen in love with years ago.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and they both turned to look at Cullen. “I, ah, hate to break up your happy reunion, Champion, Inquisitor, but... there’s still this little issue of Corypheus and the Wardens? Varric said you both fought Corypheus before?”

Anders and Hawke stepped apart, the blond apostate ducking his head and glancing away. Hawke merely inclined his head towards Cullen.

“Fought and killed him,” he answered as they strode back inside. He claimed Anders’ seat behind the large desk; Anders perched on the edge of the desk beside him as he regarded the others. How many times had they sat like this back in Kirkwall? With the heavy Ferelden-styled furniture, it felt almost like home. He wondered if it felt familiar and comfortable for Hawke, too?

“The Grey Wardens were holding Corypheus, and he somehow used his connection to the darkspawn to influence them,” Hawke continued as he leaned back in the chair a little, one hand resting absently on Anders’ knee. That, too, was comforting. 

“Corypheus got into their heads,” added Varric. “Messed with their minds, turned them against each other.”

“Got into mine too,” said Anders. “He managed to possess me - briefly.” He felt Hawke’s hand tighten on his knee and was grateful for it. “Thankfully, it seems this mark blocks his influence however. He couldn’t possess me at Haven.”

“Glad to hear it, love,” said Hawke, looking up at Anders, and the blond apostate was finally able to manage a small smile. Hawke glanced back to Cullen. “If the Wardens have disappeared, they could have fallen under his control again,” he continued.

“Do you think we could free them?” asked Cullen.

“It’s possible, said Anders slowly. “But we need to know more first.”

“I’ve made contact with one of the Wardens - an old friend of yours, I think, Anders. Nathaniel,” said Hawke. Anders’ eyes widened in surprise as Hawke went on. “He was investigating something else for me. The last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Warden ranks. Since then, nothing.”

“Corypheus would certainly qualify as corruption in the ranks,” mused Varric. “Do you think he disappeared with them?”

“No,” said Hawke, and Anders breathed a sigh of relief as he closed his eyes briefly. He felt Hawke squeeze his knee reassuringly and was comforted by it. He was no longer angry at Varric for having written to Hawke; now, he was glad. Hawke was here, and it was going to be alright. He may be the Inquisitor, but he didn’t have to struggle alone anymore.

“Nathaniel told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave near Crestwood,” Hawke went on.

“Crestwood? That’s the other end of Lake Calenhad from Kinloch,” said Anders. He couldn’t help it; his eyes flicked to Cullen, who ducked his head, turning away slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort.

“It is,” nodded Hawke, oblivious to the unspoken exchange between the blond apostate and the former templar. “Don’t get me wrong - I’m doing this for myself as much as for you. Corypheus was _my_ responsibility. I thought I’d killed him before. This time, I’ll make sure of it.”


	15. Chapter 15

They adjourned to the war room to study the huge map there and plan their next step. Hawke whistled appreciatively when he saw the size of the map, varnished onto the table, and leaned over it, staring down at the neat labels of all the major cities and many of the minor ones. He located Lake Calenhad easily enough and tapped a spot to the north of the lake where a small black dot marked the market town of Crestwood, then another spot a little to the south west, near the shore of the lake.

“The caves I spoke of are here. He thought someone might be hunting him,” explained Hawke.

“The corrupt Wardens you spoke of?” asked Cullen; Hawke glanced up and nodded.

“Then the sooner we get started, the better the chance we’ll find him first,” said Anders as he stared down at the map. “Dorian and Varric, I want you with me. We’ll bring the Bull as well. We’ll set off in the morning.”

“Will you be taking an escort?” asked Cullen; Anders shook his head.

“No. We’ll move faster alone, and we should be more than a match for any Venatori or rogue Wardens we run into.”

“You’re not taking Blackwall?” said Cassandra; Anders finally glanced up.

“No. He’s not even a Warden, and I told you - I don’t trust him. I don’t want him anywhere near Nathaniel.”

“How do you know that?” said Cullen. “How do you know he’s not a Warden?”

Anders glanced away. “Because I was a Warden once too - and I can sense he’s not.”

He was aware of Hawke starting in surprise next to him and knew he was staring at him. Anders straightened and glanced at the others, not looking at Hawke.

“Anything else? Right, we move out in the morning,” he said decisively. “Dismissed.”

The others nodded and withdrew; all except for the dwarf.

“You too, Varric,” said Anders. “Hawke and I need to... talk.”

Varric glanced from Anders to Hawke, then slowly nodded. “Sure thing, Blondie,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll be in the Great Hall if you need me. See you at dinner?”

“We’ll be there,” nodded Anders, watching as the dwarf left.

The moment they were alone, Hawke spun Anders around and shoved him back hard against the table and pressed himself atop the blond man, claiming his mouth fiercely as one hand slid into Anders’ hair and tugged hard, the other fisting into the front of his tunic. He swallowed down Anders’ half-formed protest as he kissed him, hard and demanding, his teeth nipping sharply at Anders’ bottom lip and worrying it as Anders cried out before smothering his cry with his mouth.

Anders struggled at first, a little alarmed at how rough and demanding Hawke was being, and then he gave up fighting and surrendered, returning Hawke’s kiss as the larger man pushed him back until he was lying upon the table, the varnished map smooth beneath his fingers as he splayed his hands against its surface.

Hawke’s hand tightened in his hair and Anders let him tug his head back, baring his throat. Hawke began to nip and kiss Anders’ jaw then work his way down the mage’s throat before worrying the pale skin with his teeth. Anders gasped then whimpered.

Hawke lifted his head. “You were quite the commander back there,” he remarked, his voice low. “Does it get you hot, ordering people around? Ordering _Cullen_ around? Quite the reversal there - does he like it, Anders? Does it get him hot when you order Knight-Commander Cullen around? Do you think he dreams of you fucking him over this table - or is it the other way around? You want Cullen to bend you over and show you who’s really the boss, huh?”

“No, nothing like that -” Anders broke off. “Maker, Garrett!” he managed to gasp as he felt the man’s free hand fumbling with the laces of Anders’ pants. “What are you doing?”

“What does it _feel_ like I’m doing?” replied the former Champion. “I’m going to show you exactly how much I’ve missed you and what I think of this little stunt of yours.” He forced his hand down the front of Anders’ pants and grasped the blond man’s cock, beginning to pump it slowly.

“Hawke - Garrett, please, not in here!” Anders hissed as he tried to lift his head. “Not on the table! What if someone comes in and sees?”

“I can’t think of anywhere better,” growled the other man. “What, afraid what they’ll all think of when they catch the mighty Inquisitor being fucked on the table by the Champion of Kirkwall?” He abruptly tugged Anders off the table then turned him around to face the map. “Bend over.”

Anders briefly considered refusing, but then bent forward over the map. He felt the other man tug his pants down to his knees then palm his backside; Anders braced himself against the map and spread his legs. He felt Hawke’s finger probe at his entrance and then slowly push in.

This wasn’t how Anders had imagined their reunion going - Hawke taking him like this over the war room table, of all places. And yet, he had to admit it to himself - he’d _missed_ this. Maker, he’d _missed_ Hawke’s possessiveness, missed submitting to him, and - Maker, yes, missed the sex. He pushed back into Hawke’s hand, and gasped as he felt himself breeched by Hawke’s finger. It was rough and dry, but he didn’t care. 

“More,” he gasped. He felt Hawke pushing a second finger in beside the first and he rocked back, slowly fucking himself on Hawke’s fingers as they scissored inside, stretching him. It hurt, but it felt _good_ and somehow right in a way that nothing else had since he’d staggered out of the rift with his hand on fire.

Hawke leaned over him as he worked his fingers in and out of Anders’ quivering body. He must have freed himself from his own pants; Anders could feel his stiff, erect cock as it rubbed between his thighs, warm and heavy.

“Admit it. You’ve missed this; missed _me_ ,” rumbled Hawke, his breath hot against Anders’ ear.

“Yes, oh yes,” Anders gasped. “Please....”

“Please what?” murmured Hawke.

“I need... I need more,” Anders whispered, feeling Hawke’s fingers curl inside him _just so_ and a rush of warmth flooded his groin, right down to his cock. He groaned.

Hawke was taking his time, working his fingers in and out of Anders, stretching him slowly.

“Mmm, so hot and tight. So... who else has been fucking you, love? Cullen? That Tevinter chap? I saw the way he was looking at you,” growled Hawke.

“N-no-one!” Anders gasped out. “No-one, I swear it Garrett!” His voice was frantic. “Love, please, I haven’t touched anyone since I left you!”

Hawke rumbled softly, deep in his throat. “I believe you,” he said finally. He shifted, withdrawing his fingers, and Anders cried out at the sudden feel of emptiness inside.

“Slick,” Hawke ordered. Anders blinked, and then understood. Lifting a hand from the surface of the table, he extended his hand back towards Hawke as he murmured hastily the words of the grease spell. Hawke’s fingers wrapped around his own and then moved away; a moment later the slick head of Hawke’s cock pressed against Anders’ entrance then slowly slid in.

Anders groaned at the feel of it, the sense of being filled uncomfortably full. It had been so long. He stared down at the map as Hawke began to thrust, bruising Anders’ hips against the table; his eyes were drawn to the small dot labelled “Minrathous”, and for a moment the image of a pair of hurt, storm grey eyes flashed into his mind. 

Hawke took him there, bent over the war room table, fast and hard. One hand gripped Anders’ hip bruisingly hard; the other clamped over Anders’ mouth, muffling his cries. A small voice inside him whispered that this felt wrong, something wasn’t quite right. He felt off-kilter as Hawke pounded into him, but he ignored it, pushing that small voice away.

When it was over, Anders sprawled over the table, Hawke sprawled atop him, heavy, pinning him down as they both panted, hearts racing. It was a couple of minutes before Hawke finally pushed himself upright and pulled slowly out of Anders. The mage groaned at the sensation of emptiness; as he slowly straightened, he could feel Hawke’s seed trickling down his leg - hot, wet, sticky. He winced, sore inside.

He heard Hawke moving around behind him, and then the touch of a cloth on his inner thigh, sweeping up to clean his arse before Hawke moved away again. After a moment, a little shame-faced, Anders tugged his pants up, relacing them and pulling his clothes straight before he turned to face Hawke, who grinned at him as though nothing had just happened.

“So, going to show me around?” said the Champion.

 

***

Anders showed Hawke around Skyhold; as they headed through the Great Hall, Varric looked up from his table by the fire, laying his quill down before rising to join them.

Hawke laughed at Anders’ wooden throne and teased him as they headed towards the rotunda. Anders introduced Hawke to Solas, who was polite but distant, obviously wanting to get back to the mural he was painting on the walls of his room. Anders led Hawke upstairs to the library, where they found Dorian ensconced in his usual chair in his alcove, studying a book, a glass of wine perched atop the stack of books to his right. He glanced up as they entered, darting an unfriendly glance at Hawke though his eyes softened a little as he greeted Anders. He was cordial and polite but cool; as they moved away, Hawke leaned over to murmur quietly, “I don’t think your pet magister likes me, love.”

“Altus,” said Anders without thinking. “Dorian isn’t a magister.”

“There’s a difference?” said Hawke. “Still, he’s from Tevinter. Blood mage, I presume?”

“No,” said Anders, a little sharply. “He hates it as much as I do.”

Hawke gave him a measuring stare. “Eager to defend him, I see,” he said slowly. 

“I’ve had to do it a lot,” replied Anders, gritting his teeth. “Dorian has proven himself a valuable addition to the Inquisition. He saved my life, and we wouldn’t have been able to get the mages out of Redcliffe and away from Corypheus without him. Some people seem to feel that’s not enough, but I trust him.” He led the way up the stairs towards the Rookery. “Leliana’s up here,” he added.

“Sister Nightingale?” exclaimed Hawke, surprised. “What’s she doing here?”

“She’s our spymistress,” answered Anders. As they reached Leliana’s office, he was glad they’d moved away from the subject of Dorian.

Anders led Hawke around the keep, introducing him to the other members of his inner circle. Hawke didn’t care overmuch for Vivienne; from her cool, disdainful response, Anders judged the feeling was mutual. Bull frankly unnerved Hawke, eyeing him with piercing scrutiny as he regarded the shorter man.

“You OK, Boss?” the Ben-Hassrath asked in his deep rumble after introductions had been made.

“I’m fine,” said Anders diffidently, folding his arms around himself. It was cold out there in the practice ring, though neither Hawke nor the Iron Bull seemed to notice the biting chill of the wind.

“Blondie, you’re freezing,” chided Varric as he patted Anders’ arm. “You shouldn’t be out here in this cold without your cloak on. You’re not fully recovered yet.”

“Yes, Mother,” replied Anders, but his teasing smile was half-hearted. He was aware of Bull frowning at him even as the giant Qunari talked with Hawke about his experiences with the Arishok; the Champion was surprised to hear that the Bull had actually known the Arishok, and even more taken aback when it was obvious the Qunari knew all about their duel.

Anders didn’t see any signal pass between the Bull and Krem, who was sparring with Dalish, but suddenly the two broke apart and Krem was walking over towards them.

“Krem - this is the Champion of Kirkwall,” said the Iron Bull.

“The one who took down the old Arishok? Nice,” said Krem with an impressed look. “Must’ve been quite the fight.”

“Actually, I spent a lot of time running away whilst he chased me around the Viscount’s foyer,” replied Hawke with a self-conscious cough. “Whatever you’ve heard, believe me - the reality was much less glamorous.”

The two men moved a little way away from the others as Krem drew Hawke into discussing the details of the fight, and the Bull folded his arms as he glanced down at Anders.

“Something’s up, Boss,” he rumbled quietly. “Your old boyfriend showing up has you rattled.”

Anders shot him a glance. “Is it that obvious?” he asked in a low voice. The Bull snorted. 

“No,” he replied. “Only to someone who knows what to look for. Or someone who knows you well.” He glanced to Varric, who nodded.

“What’s up, Blondie?” said Varric quietly. “You know you can trust us not to tell anyone.”

“Can I?” said Anders, a little sharply. “You went behind my back and brought him here, Varric.”

The dwarf winced. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“Did the whole ‘not telling Anders’ bit also seem a good idea?” replied Anders, an acid bite creeping into his voice.

“Now, Blondie, don’t take it like that,” said Varric soothingly. “I didn’t know you’d react like that, or I’d have done things differently.”

“And what way did he react?” asked the Bull quietly. Anders pulled a face.

“I fainted,” he admitted. “Not one of my finer moments.”

“You were unprepared to see your former lover,” said the Bull quietly. “You wanted it to be on your terms, not his.”

“Not quite... former,” said Anders. He was aware that Varric was staring at him.

“Blondie... what are you saying?” he said slowly. “That you don’t love Hawke any more?”

“It’s... more complicated than that,” Anders replied with a groan. He ran his hands slowly over his face and sighed. He felt Bull’s massive hand come to rest on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. He took a deep breath and lowered his hands.

“I still love Garrett,” he said, his eyes on Hawke and Krem as they spoke, Hawke now gesticulating with exaggerated gestures, obviously engaged in telling some tale of their adventures to Krem who had a wide-eyed but sceptical look. 

“But it’s changed,” said the Bull, understandingly. Anders sighed.

“It has,” he nodded. “It’s like... Hawke, Fenris, how things were before - it’s like it happened almost to someone else. I hadn’t realised it before, but all this - Skyhold, and Haven before that, and what happened there....”

“It’s changed you,” nodded Varric slowly. “You’re not the same man you were before. And Hawke was expecting it all to be the way it was back before this all happened.”

“I don’t think I can go back to being that man, either,” confessed Anders. “There’s so much depending on me now. I’m having to learn to be a leader, whereas before I was always content to trail along after Hawke. Now I’m the Inquisitor, and... I’m not sure how well Hawke is handling that, either. He’s used to being the one in charge.” He swallowed hard, then his voice dropped lower. “He accused me of fucking Cullen over the war room table.” He felt his throat tighten.

The Bull’s hand tightened comfortingly on his shoulder. 

“Blondie, did something happen to you two?” asked Varric, glancing up at him worriedly.

“No,” lied Anders. He felt Bull’s hand tighten again and gritted his teeth.

Hawke and Krem were walking back towards them. Hawke grinned at Anders. "Everything alright love?” he asked.

“Fine,” answered Anders.

Bull squeezed his shoulder one last time then stepped away.

 

***

Dinner was an ordeal Anders thought would never end. Hawke sat at the Inquisitor’s table with the rest of the inner circle. He laughed, told jokes - in fact, behaved just as he always had, dominating the conversation with sheer charisma. Anders could see Cassandra just lapping it all up delightedly, hanging on every word. It was a side of Cassandra he’d never seen before. Cullen was more reserved, but seemed pleased enough to listen to all Hawke’s wild tales. Anders had to admit that really, Varric hadn’t had to exaggerate most of their adventures; they seemed more believable when Hawke himself was telling them however.

Blackwall certainly seemed impressed, and even Vivienne seemed intrigued in spite of herself. Josephine laughed delightedly at the end of one particularly outrageous story; with a start, Anders realised he’d just told the story of how they’d helped Aveline woo Donnic. 

“But that is just so romantic!” exclaimed Cassandra. “And they married?”

“The very next spring,” nodded Hawke. “They have three little girls, all redheads and complete terrors, just like their mother.” He grinned. Josephine giggled, then leaned over and whispered something to Leliana who smiled slightly before giving Anders a sympathetic glance. Anders reached for his cup of wine.

As Hawke launched into another story, the Iron Bull guffawed at one particularly amusing point and slapped his knee, but his eyes slid to Anders thoughtfully.

Only Dorian held himself aloof, affecting to ignore Hawke’s storytelling as he turned his attention instead to his own cup of wine. He glanced up only once, when Hawke described how Anders used to put saucers of milk out for stray cats at his clinic in Darktown. As Josephine exclaimed delightedly and Anders felt himself blushing, the Tevinter Altus glanced over at him and lifted an eyebrow then gave him a small smile, the hard unfriendly look in his flinty grey eyes softening a little before he glanced away.

Anders excused himself as early as he dared, claiming a headache; as he rose, Hawke glanced up at him with a concerned look.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked, catching Anders’ wrist and halting him. Anders glanced down at his wrist then up to Hawke. He was aware of Dorian staring at them.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Just tired I guess. I just need to get an early night; we’ve a long ride after all.”

“Want me to come up with you?” offered Hawke, starting to rise.

“No, it’s fine - stay, I think Cassandra wants to hear another story,” said Anders as he glanced at the Seeker, whose eyes were bright and expectant. “Can’t disappoint your audience now, can you?”

“You’re not going until you’ve kissed me,” replied Hawke with a grin as he pulled Anders towards him, the grip upon Anders’ wrist tightening a little.

Anders allowed himself to be drawn down and his mouth claimed by the Champion; he heard exclamations rippling through the hall, and felt his cheeks burning. 

Hawke finally released his wrist and let him pull away. “Run along; I’ll be up in a little while,” he ordered before turning back to the others.

His cheeks still burning, Anders turned and walked from the hall, aware of eyes upon him.

He was almost asleep when he felt the mattress dip behind him, and then Hawke slid up against him, flinging an arm around his chest and pinning his legs with one of his own.

“Are you asleep yet?” murmured Hawke, his breath redolent of wine as he nestled himself up against Anders’ backside, his thick heavy cock sliding between Anders’ legs. Anders kept his eyes closed, his body deliberately relaxed and limp, feigning sleep.

He felt Hawke begin to slowly rut against him, his cock sliding back and forth between Anders’ thighs, his leg pinning Anders’ legs together as his member rubbed against Anders’ perineum. His arm tightened, holding Anders firmly in place as he grunted, his movements speeding up as he fucked between Anders’ thighs until suddenly he jerked and Anders felt a warm wetness between his thighs.

He lay there as Hawke grunted then rolled over onto his back and away from Anders; a moment later he began to snore.

Anders opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, blinking away the tears that stung his eyes. Sleep did not come for a long time.


	16. Chapter 16

He awoke before Hawke and made straight for the bathing chamber, bolting the door behind himself before running a hot bath - as hot as he could stand it. He’d never had to lock the door against Hawke before; it would have been unthinkable. But as he slipped into the hot water with a hiss for how it scalded, he couldn’t quell the sickening feeling in his stomach. 

Hawke had never been that aggressively possessive before, save once - a period of some six months after Fenris had first shown interest in Anders. It had been a bolt from the blue; Anders had had no idea the elf even felt that way about him, until the elf had slammed him against a wall and stolen his breath and his senses with a kiss. That in itself would have been bad enough even if he _hadn’t_ done it under Hawke’s roof. But he had - and Hawke himself had walked in on them; and though it was clear Fenris had been the aggressor, it was Anders who suffered Hawke’s aggression afterwards. He had been more demanding, his kisses full of teeth, their lovemaking less tender than it had been before, as though Hawke had sought to emphasise to Anders exactly who the blond apostate belonged to.

In the space of six months Anders had gone from deliriously happy to painfully miserable, to the point that even Merrill had picked up on it. And in the one day and night spent in Hawke’s company, Anders found himself recalling those days vividly.

He knew what had brought it on of course. Hawke was jealous. It didn’t take any great intelligence to work that out. Anders had felt him bristling around Dorian; it was obvious just who it was the Champion considered to be his rival, even though it was Cullen he’d accused Anders of cuckolding him with. 

There was no point protesting it however; Anders knew from experience that Hawke would merely see that as proof there was something to deny. 

He dreaded going out there again - leaving the sanctity of his bathroom and facing the man he loved. No - the man he’d _thought_ he’d loved. This wasn’t love - this queasy churning in his stomach, this hiding away, dreading the moment he’d have to leave the tub, go face Hawke again. The thought of repeating those six months of misery, on top of the stresses of being Inquisitor - would Hawke insist on taking him like that again over the war table after every single meeting? Every time he thought Cullen paid him too much attention, or Dorian’s eyes lingered on him a second longer than Hawke was comfortable with? 

Was last night’s use of his supposedly-sleeping body a once-off, or was that what Anders had to look forward to every single night?

He scrubbed himself in the scalding hot water, his skin turning pink as he scoured himself. He found he was crying silently as he rubbed hard with the rough washcloth at his inner thighs until the skin felt raw, wishing he could scrub away the feeling of having been used as well. 

He stayed in the tub until the water was beginning to turn cold, putting off for as long as possible the moment when he’d have to face Hawke again; when he finally emerged from the bathing chamber however, he found that Hawke was gone. He felt a wave of almost overwhelming thankfulness that he was alone. He made his way to the door and called quietly down to a passing guard, who glanced up, surprised to be called by the Inquisitor himself.

“Inquisitor? The Champion of Kirkwall is looking for you!” the guard stammered. Anders felt his heart sink, but drew himself up as he clutched the towel tighter around his waist.

“Have breakfast sent to my room, and let no-one disturb me - not the Champion, the Commander or anyone else, understand?” he ordered. “Not for at least an hour.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the guard as he saluted. “Are you unwell, Inquisitor? Should I fetch a healer?”

“No,” answered Anders, shaking his head. “I simply wish to be left alone.” A sudden thought came to him. “Tell the Iron Bull I wish to speak with him.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” answered the guard with a respectful bow. 

Anders withdrew and made his way over to the wardrobe to pick out clean clothes. He heard a quiet meow from the bed and glanced over; Pounce was curled on the foot of the bed and had lifted his head to stare at Anders. He smiled sadly and made his way over to the bed; the cat rose to its feet and stretched slowly before padding over to headbutt his hands until Anders stroked him.

“Oh Pounce. What am I going to do?” he sighed. “I wish Fenris were here.”

Suddenly he felt tears stinging his eyes again, hot and insistent. He scooped the elderly cat into his arms and buried his face in the elderly tabby’s fur as he sobbed quietly.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. He set the cat down and went to open it.

“You OK Boss?” asked the Bull as he stood there, a tray bearing Anders’ breakfast balanced on one hand.

“No,” answered Anders as he let him in. “No, I’m really not.”

***

Their departure for Crestwood was delayed by a couple of days; Anders had been kept very busy with last-minute meetings with various nobles that Vivienne and Josephine managed to squeeze in, in between discussions of troop movements with Cullen and discussions with Fiona regarding the ongoing training of mages in Skyhold. They’d set up an informal college of sorts to continue the training and education of apprentices, much to Vivienne’s annoyance; the First Enchanter of Montsimmard had made her feelings known to Anders at length when he first raised the subject. She’d made it plain that she felt the old system of the Circle should be re-established and was most dissatisfied that he didn’t feel the same way.

“What did she expect?” laughed Hawke as they made their way back from the meeting with Fiona. “You blew up the Chantry to _overthrow_ the old order, not bring it back!”

“Garrett,” said Anders quietly as he came to a halt, staring at the Champion. The laughter left Hawke’s face.

“Forgive me love,” he said contritely. “That was... I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” said Anders as he stared at the warrior. “You shouldn’t have. I’m not proud of what I did - far from it.”

Hawke turned back towards Anders and lifted a hand to gently trail the backs of his fingers down the side of Anders’ face, then he cupped Anders’ cheek with a warm palm. Anders couldn’t help it; he closed his eyes and leaned a little into the touch.

“I know; I’m sorry, love,” said Hawke, his voice quiet. “I should have thought first before I opened my mouth. I’m worried for you; you’ve been so quiet since I got here. Withdrawn. What’s wrong?”

Anders opened his eyes and stared at Hawke. _Tell him._ “I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” he replied. _You. Your jealousy. What you did to me._ “This whole Inquisition... Corypheus... there’s a lot resting on me right now.” He hated himself for his cowardice, even as he deflected.

Hawke smiled gently. “Just as long as _we’re_ OK. I was beginning to think it was something I’d done.”

_Tell him!!_

“I miss Fenris,” said Anders quietly, his voice shaking a little.

“Oh love,” said Hawke as he enveloped Anders in a bear hug. “I know. Maker only knows where he is. But you’ve got me. You’re not alone anymore; I’ll take care of you.”

Anders let his hands drift up to rest on Hawke’s hips even as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. He knew he should pull away, put some distance between them - but in moments like this, he couldn’t. _This_ was the Garrett he’d fallen in love with; the gentle man who held him close, reassured him, gave him strength to do what he had to. _Maker save me, I still love him._

***

They finally departed a few days later, nearly a week after Hawke’s arrival. The Champion was a bit disgruntled when he realised that Dorian would be accompanying them along with Varric, Cassandra and the Iron Bull. 

Anders had hoped he could persuade Cullen to accompany them, but the Commander was too busy to be able to spare a week or two away from the fortress. New recruits were arriving daily, as were reinforcements from some of their newer allies, and they all needed to be integrated into the Inquisition forces and drilled.

Anders had considered long and hard whether to bring the Seeker with him. She evidently had read far too much of Varric’s “The Tale of the Champion” and developed what Anders could only term a crush on the fictionalised version of Hawke. In the end, he decided to bring her along; an extra sword could be useful, and at least whilst he had an admiring audience maybe Hawke would be less likely to brood or raise his hackles over Dorian being along.

At the end of the first day’s travel, Cassandra and Hawke got into an involved discussion comparing the merits of different fighting styles when killing dragons which the Iron Bull took an active interest in. Anders was content to leave them to it; he sat to one side near Varric as they ate, letting the conversation wash over him.

“How you holding up, Blondie?” asked Varric quietly.

“Tired but OK,” shrugged Anders. 

“Better than Sparkler then,” remarked the dwarf quietly. Anders glanced over to the Tevinter Altus, who was sitting by himself on the other side of the camp fire. Anders had to admit that Dorian looked rather out of sorts and moody.

“I don’t think Dorian’s particularly a fan of camping,” shrugged Anders.

“Can’t say I blame him,” replied Varric. “I think he’s less a fan of the death-glares your boyfriend keeps giving him though.”

“Holding it in because to speak would make it all much worse, though not for him,” said a voice in Anders’ ear. He jumped, startled, as Varric turned.

“Oh, hey, Kid,” he said. “Where’d you come from? I didn’t know you’d decided to tag along.”

Cole stepped over the log they were sat on and perched on it between them, his eyes on Dorian. “He burns to say something but swallows it down to protect you,” he said in a low voice before glancing at Anders. “Sharp eyes will see and make it all much worse. Cutting not with knives but with words but they hold the edges. On the inside, where you can’t see them.”

Anders swallowed hard. “Cole....”

Eyes the colour of water stared at him. “You love him, but you're angry. They mix together, boiling in the belly until it kneads into a knot.”

Dorian had glanced across at them.

Anders closed his eyes. “Cole. I’m not ready to talk about this. Not here, not right now.” 

“You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are. Why would you do that?” asked Cole. “It’s too tight; I want to tug it free but you’re afraid to let it go.”

“Kiddo, I don’t think now’s a good time,” said Varric. “C’mon, help me find some more firewood.” He got to his feet and tugged at Cole, slowly drawing him away.

Anders drew a slow breath; he felt the log shift slightly beneath him and opened his eyes.

“Are you alright?” asked Dorian quietly. “What was Cole saying to you? Whatever it was, it’s obviously not something you were happy to hear.”

“Has Cole ever said something _you_ were happy to hear?” murmured Anders. The Tevinter mage smiled wryly.

“Point taken,” he conceded. “Very well, I shan’t pry; but is there something I can do to help? Preferably something that won’t have your over-protective boyfriend trying to kill me with a look,” he added darkly.

“I’m sorry about Garrett,” sighed Anders. “He’s just....”

“Worried about you? He has a funny way of showing it,” said Dorian. As Anders glanced at him he lifted his hands placatingly. “Not my place, I know; forget I said anything. I’m just concerned for you. As a friend.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Anders. He gave Dorian a brief smile, then got to his feet. “It’s late; I’m going to turn in.”

He was aware of Dorian’s eyes on him as he crawled into his tent.

 

***

It was pouring with rain when they reached the Inquisition scout camp near the outskirts of Crestwood. Scout Harding was waiting to report when they arrived; Anders waved the others off to get hot food at the mess tent whilst he greeted Lace Harding.

“Good to see you safe, Inquisitor,” she greeted him. “We’ve got trouble ahead.”

“If _you’re_ worried, then it _must_ be trouble,” remarked Anders. “What is it?”

She inclined her head, indicating he should follow as she headed down towards the shore of a small lake. 

Anders stared out across the water and frowned as rainwater dripped off the edge of his hood. Far out over the waters, a baleful green glow could be seen under the water; he felt an answering pulse of pain in the palm of his left hand.

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed, Inquisitor,” replied Harding. “Crestwood was the site of a flood ten years ago during the Blight. It’s not the only rift in the area, but after it appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake.”

Anders groaned. “Let me guess. They wouldn’t happen to be between us and the smuggler’s caves?”

“Afraid so, ser,” she nodded. “You’ll have to fight your way through them before we can reach the place where Ser Hawke’s Grey Warden friend is hiding.”

“Are you going to be safe here? Have we lost anyone to them thus far?” asked Anders, glancing back out at the baleful green glow beneath the waters.

“None so far, Inquisitor,” replied Harding. “We get the occasional shambler but most make their way towards the village below. Maybe someone in Crestwood can tell you a way to reach the rift in the lake; Maker knows they could use your help.”

“And they’ll have it,” replied Anders. He sighed. “Maker, this place reminds me far too much of Blackmarsh.”

“Inquisitor?” said Harding, startled; Anders belatedly realised that as far as the dwarven scout knew, he was Trevelyan of Ostwick. He guessed the word hadn’t gotten out to the scouts yet. Anders stared down at her. Leliana trusted this woman, and thus far he himself had had no reason not to trust her.

“Lace... can I... tell you something in confidence?” he said softly.

Her eyes widened at his use of her first name. “Inquisitor?” she answered slowly, her own voice dropping. He turned and leaned against the broken remains of a ruined stone wall as he folded his arms and stared at the ground.

“I’m guessing Leliana has already mentioned Blackmarsh to you?” he asked. She nodded slowly.

“She said she’d visited it with the Wardens,” she said slowly. Anders nodded.

“I was one of them,” he said softly. As she stared at him, uncomprehendingly, he glanced at her. “My name isn’t Trevelyan,” he continued quietly. “I’m not from Ostwick. I... used to be a Grey Warden.”

“ _Used_ to be?” said Harding slowly as she stared at him, frowning. Her eyes widened slightly. “You... you’re _him?_ ”

He nodded. “My name is Anders.”

She stared at him intently for several minutes then turned and leaned against the wall next to him. “Wow,” she finally said quietly. 

He dropped his gaze to his feet; after a moment he felt her shift slightly and he glanced to the side to see her staring up at him. 

“So why tell me here and now?” she asked quietly.

“I wanted you to know just who you are really dealing with,” he said slowly. “I feel that I owe it to you. You’ve worked hard and you risk your life and the lives of your people for the sake of the Inquisition, and I figure that you deserve to know the truth.”

“Huh,” she said thoughtfully. “You’re putting a lot of trust in me.”

“So does Leliana,” replied Anders. 

Harding pondered this for a moment, then nodded. “I appreciate you coming clean with me, Inquisitor. It can’t have been easy; after all, you had no idea how I’d react.” 

“So I’m still ‘Inquisitor’ to you, Lace?” he asked. 

She grinned. “Sure. You know why?”

He stared at her and shook his head wordlessly. Her grinned widened.

“Because Leliana evidently trusts _you_ ,” she replied. 

She turned and headed back towards the camp. Anders stared after her for a moment, then pushed himself off the wall and followed her.


	17. Chapter 17

They set out early the next day to head towards Crestwood. There was a thick mist rolling off Lake Calenhad, cold and chill. They’d barely left the camp before they ran into the shuffling corpses Harding had warned about, the undead lurching unexpectedly out of the mists nightmarishly.

Anders could see straight away why she’d referred to them as “shamblers” - they shuffled around almost blindly, as though without purpose, until you got within a certain distance - at which point the undead creatures suddenly became a lot more lively. It was almost like dealing with darkspawn, only less taint, he reflected as they waded into the first lot. 

He was glad he’d insisted upon bringing Dorian with them; having a necromancer on hand was useful when dealing with dead things, after all - and at least he could ensure once they’d put them down that the corpses would _stay_ dead, at least until they’d had a chance to incinerate the corpses with fire spells and lay them to rest permanently. 

The shambling ones were at least relatively easy to put down; the devouring corpses - those inhabited by a hunger demon - were rather more challenging. Anders found himself naturally falling into the same backup role he’d always taken with Hawke and Varric, the three complementing and reinforcing each other naturally. Cassandra and the Iron Bull fought back-to-back as Dorian weaved his arcane arts on the offensive. Cole faded in and out of the mists, wraith-like as he took out opponents then vanished again.

They’d just put down another wave of shambling corpses when the sounds of shouting and some sort of melee came to them through the mists. Anders frowned; he had a definite sense of something unclean scratching in the back of his skull even as his stomach heaved a little, queasily. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes briefly even as the others stared in the direction of the noise.

“Wardens,” he said as he opened his eyes again. Had to be; the feel wasn’t quite right for darkspawn. Fairly recently recruited too, from what he could feel; the taint thin and weak yet in their blood.

“How do you know that?” said Hawke incredulously. “I thought - but that shouldn’t even be possible still!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Anders snapped back, fear making his voice thin and sharp.

“Blondie, hate to break this up but it sounds like someone’s in trouble and needs our help,” said Varric, glancing up at them worriedly.

“He’s right; come on,” said Anders, turning and plunging into the mists, following the sounds of fighting - but also that unnerving feeling in the back of his skull.

They found three Grey Wardens fighting to protect a young woman who was being set upon by eight devouring corpses in the street just on the outskirts of Crestwood itself. Anders and the others took down the corpses swiftly until shortly only they, the woman and the three Wardens were left standing. Anders and Dorian took care of the bodies swiftly before turning to the Wardens.

“The Grey Wardens thank you for your aid, Inquisitor,” said the lead Warden once they’d all had a chance to catch their breath. Anders stared at him intently, but if the man realised he stood in front of a former Warden, he gave no sign of it. _Curiouser and curiouser._

“What are you doing in Crestwood?” he asked.

“A Warden named Nathaniel is wanted for questioning,” replied the Warden, grimacing as the drizzling rain began to come down again, to a distant rumble of thunder. “We’d heard he’d passed through here but the villagers knew nothing. They have troubles enough.”

“What have you been told about this rogue Warden?” asked Anders, his grimace echoing that of the Warden as the rain began to come down harder, plastering his hair to his head and starting to run down the back of his collar. He tugged his hood up as he frowned at the Warden, blinking rainwater out of his eyes.

“Warden-Commander Clarel ordered his capture,” replied the Warden, shuffling his feet slightly. “I can say no more than that.” His words were punctuated by a crack of thunder. “I hope Ser Nathaniel comes with us peacefully,” he added. “I trained under him for a time. He’s a good man, I’m sure of that.”

 _As am I._ Anders stared at the Warden, clenching his fists silently as he strove to keep even a flicker of recognition at Nathaniel’s name from showing on his face. He was aware of Hawke giving him a worried look.

“How long will you be in the area?” asked Anders. “The villagers could use your help fighting off the undead.”

The Grey Warden shook his head regretfully as his companions stepped up behind him. “My orders forbid it; Crestwood was only a detour,” he answered. “If the Inquisition can help, I beg you to do what you can. The villagers have lost too many already.”

“I understand,” nodded Anders.

“Ser, are you sure we can’t stay and help the village?” asked one of the other Wardens. The first Warden shook his head, regret clear in his eyes as he ran a hand over his face to wipe away the rainwater.

“Our orders were clear. If we can’t find Warden Nathaniel, we return to the Commanders with all haste.”

“Still don’t feel right,” said the other Warden as they turned away, the lead Warden nodding farewell to Anders as he turned away.

“I know,” he said as they moved away. “But if I judge our orders correctly, harder decisions await.”

Anders returned to the others. Hawke reached out and grasped Anders’ sodden shoulder.

“You knew there were Wardens here - but they didn’t recognise you as one of them,” he said slowly. “How?”

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” said Anders heavily. “But I’ve been aware for some time that something akin to my old Warden sense has returned. Don’t ask me how - my blood is still free of the taint.”

“What do you mean, ‘free of the taint’?” exclaimed Dorian.

“Wardens carry the taint in their blood. It doesn’t kill them, but it’s how they’re able to sense darkspawn - and each other,” replied Anders. He saw Dorian’s eyes widen; the necromancer seemed on the verge of asking him something but they were suddenly interrupted by the young woman they’d helped save.

“Did you see how those Grey Wardens saved me from those corpses?” she exclaimed. “They’re amazing! I’m going to see if they’re looking for recruits.”

“Saved by the Inquisition and it’s the _Wardens_ she wants to join,” chuckled Varric.

“Oh Maker, you’re the Inquisitor!” she exclaimed as she turned and stared at Anders, her eyes widening. “But - yes, the Wardens are heroes, your Worship. With all that’s happening, I’d like to help people the same way.”

Dorian chuckled. “By joining the Grey Wardens? You can’t think of something less lethal?”

“I can think of a great many things you could do that would help far more,” said Anders desperately. Looking into her eager eyes, all he could see was Mhairi’s dead body. She had drunk from the same Joining cup he and Oghren had. She had _wanted_ to join the Wardens, whereas he’d had no choice - it was that or the noose. He had survived, whereas she had died, gasping and choking out the last of her life there in that room.

He laid his hands on the woman’s shoulders. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jana, your Worship,” she said, staring up at him.

“Jana, listen to me. You don’t want to be a Warden. It’s not the glamorous life you think it is. It’s a hard, brutal existence - a short life and an unpleasant end - if you even survive the Joining in the first place; some don’t.” He was aware of the others’ eyes on him, their silence. Hawke’s hand was still upon his shoulder; he felt it tighten through the layers of sodden feathers and thick wool felt.

“How do you know this?” said Jana, shaken. “May-maybe you’re wrong, maybe -”

“He’s not wrong,” said Hawke heavily. “He speaks the truth. My brother is a Grey Warden. And I’ll tell you this - if you join the Wardens, you’ll never see your family again.”

“Maker,” she breathed. “But - then - what shall I do?”

“Go to the camp just outside the village,” said Anders. “Ask for Scout Harding. We would be glad to have you in the Inquisition.”

“Truly? Oh thank you, your Worship!” she exclaimed delightedly. She ran off into the rain.

Anders felt Hawke’s fingers tighten again. 

“Anders. What you said about the Joining. When Carver-”

Anders turned back to him. “Garrett, Carver was dying of the Blight. Yes, I knew there was a chance he might not make it through the Joining - but he was dead anyway if he didn’t, and it would have been a faster, cleaner death than lingering for hours, days until finally he succumbed to the Blight. Would you honestly have chosen otherwise if you’d known?” He stared into Hawke’s bright blue eyes as the rainwater ran down their faces. 

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the patter of rain and the uneasy rumbling of thunder, before Hawke bowed his head.

“No. You’re right; I wouldn’t. It was the only choice we had,” he admitted heavily. He patted Anders’ shoulder. “You did your best, and in some ways I think it was the best thing that could have happened to Carver - though, Maker, when I learned about the Calling...!”

“He’s a warrior, Hawke. He’s got decades ahead of him,” said Anders.

“And you? Anders, if you can feel Wardens and darkspawn again...!” Hawke stared at Anders, gripping his shoulders now with both hands.

“I told you, I don’t understand it any more than you do - but my blood is free of the taint. Whatever it is, I’m not a Warden any more,” said Anders.

Hawke gave Anders’ shoulders as squeeze then drew him close, engulfing the slender mage in a bear hug, ignoring how soaked they both were. “I just don’t want to lose you again. Not like that. Not ever,” he murmured.

“I know,” answered Anders quietly.

“I hate to break up this touching moment, but do you think we could postpone it until we’re all somewhere warm and dry, instead of in the middle of a downpour?” complained Dorian petulantly.

***

The Mayor seemed rather pessimistic about the prospect of draining the lake to uncover the flooded ruins of Old Crestwood, but was persuaded to surrender the key to the old fort that guarded the dam. Even Dorian conceded that, as wet as they were, they could hardly get any wetter for tackling the bandits that had taken up residence in the fort straight away rather than waiting until morning; the sooner the lake were drained, the sooner Anders could get the rift closed and end the threat to the village.

The bandits offered little challenge or trouble to the seven of them, and it wasn’t long until the lake was draining steadily into the waters of Lake Calenhad itself.

Anders stared at the entrance into the caves with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

“Come on; let’s go close this rift and then we can find Nathaniel,” said Hawke. “Cheer up, love - at least it isn’t the Deep Roads!” 

Anders sighed. “No, it isn’t,” he conceded. He swallowed hard, then nodded for them to go on.

"It's humming below us," said Cole. "A window, wanting, wandering, looking back at what's looking."

"Well, at least we're on the right track," murmured Anders.

He and Dorian cast globes of magefire onto the tips of their staves. Anders walked at the front, whilst Dorian brought up the rear.

The rift was fairly easy to find - just follow the demon-possessed corpses in the caves back to their source. Anders wouldn’t have minded so much, if it hadn’t included the whole “underground in narrow twisting cave passages” aspect which made the fight a lot harder than it would otherwise have been. There were few places wide enough to permit the Bull to come forward and join Anders and Hawke at the front - and frankly Anders would have preferred _not_ to have been right in the lead and in the thick of it. He preferred to be able to keep a running check on the party’s health, providing shields and healing, but he couldn’t do that and fight effectively at the same time. He had to be constantly on the offensive, trying to switch swiftly from paralysis glyphs and fans of ice that froze the demons in place, to shielding spells on Hawke and Varric (and Cole when the spirit would stay in one place long enough), to fireball and lightning spells as he forced himself to ignore Hawke and Varric’s grunts of pain or his own injuries as they fought to take down each wave of demons. Between each wave he was able to hastily heal them and himself, but each wave took a toll on him.

He was glad when the cave passage widened and Cassandra and Dorian were able to move forwards; Cassandra’s ability to purge magical energy was useful in blocking some of the waves of demons from spawning properly - or respawning in the dead bodies before Dorian was able to or he and Anders could incinerate them with a fireball; and with Dorian in the front line Anders could drop back into his usual support role. Nonetheless, as they headed deeper in search of the rift itself he was exhausted and aching all over.

“Is that... _light_ up ahead?” said Dorian suddenly. He gestured, and they glanced at each other. The Tevinter Altus was right - distant light was glimmering against the walls of the tunnel from something unseen around the corner at the far end of the passageway. They stared at the light, and then hurried swiftly onwards.

The passageway widened out suddenly as the ceiling rose far overhead. They stared about themselves.

“Dwarven ruins?” exclaimed Anders as they stared around at the ancient carved walls.

“And the whole area is still lit up,” marvelled Dorian as they headed down the wide hallway. “Remarkable.”

"Demons ahead," warned Cole. "They don't understand it here. They want to destroy everything."

They prowled down ancient dwarven hallways, skirting past fallen stone and collapsed walls in places as they headed further in. Far in the distance they could just make out the flickering green of the rift. Now, instead of possessed corpses, it was demons they were running into - wave after wave, and it seemed as though they somehow knew they were bent on closing the rift. The demons threw themselves at the group, howling in fury.

Anders lost count of time as they fought closer to the rift. It seemed every time they got closer to it, yet more demons would pop up. Cassandra and Dorian worked hard with their respective abilities to disrupt magical energy to prevent the demons spawning fully, but still there were enough getting through each time the rift pulsed with brilliant green light to keep them occupied - and each time, the anchor in Anders’ palm burned painfully.

Finally he managed to push his way through and he was standing before the rift. It was one of the larger ones he’d yet seen, and as Anders stared at it wearily he felt a little daunted. He was running very low on mana, he ached all over, and he could feel himself trembling with exhaustion as he stared at the rift. He lifted his hand, and the anchor in his hand erupted into green flames of energy.

The rift fought him as he tried to close it, the energies surging and bucking wildly even as he focused his own power and mana through the anchor in his palm, bending the rift slowly to his will as he drew it shut. Hawke caught him as he slowly dropped to his knees, drained and cold, clutching his wrist with a grimace as the rift finally snapped shut with a backlash of power through the anchor that shot a jagged spark of pain back up his arm to his elbow.

“Maker, Anders - what’s wrong?” exclaimed Hawke as he dropped to one knee, slowly easing Anders to the ground. 

“Rifts always take it out of him,” said Dorian as he and Cassandra knelt down on the other side of Anders. The Tevinter Altus was hunting through his pouches for a vial of lyrium. “Here, this should help.”

“This happens every time he uses that mark in his hand?” said Hawke, frowning.

“It is the price he pays for the power, and we are all grateful for his willingness to do so,” replied Cassandra.

“Oh, I _bet_ you’re grateful!” spat Hawke. “Does ‘grateful’ make it hurt any less for _him_ , or make up for near-killing himself to close those damned rifts?”

“We all make sacrifices for the good of Thedas,” replied the Seeker stiffly. “And we all risk our lives so that he can close the rifts. We do not under-estimate the cost to Anders himself.”

Anders felt a little of his strength returning as he licked the last of the lyrium from his lips, though he still felt chilled and cold. “Garrett... it’s alright,” he managed quietly. “I’ll be alright in a minute.”

“No, it’s _not_ alright,” argued Hawke as he stared down at Anders, concern and worry in his eyes.

“Garrett. I’m the only one who can close the rifts,” said Anders quietly.

“Anders, love. I saw your face - you were in pain,” said Hawke as he gently stroked Anders’ cheek. “Do you mean to tell me you go through that, _every_ time you close one of these rifts?” 

Anders smiled wanly. “Pretty much. This one was just a little more stubborn than most and I was already tired though. I should be alright in a minute when I’ve caught my breath. I just -”

He broke off as he felt a familiar sensation - the scratching feeling in the back of his mind, but this time he recognised who it was. He closed his eyes and grinned.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” he called out.

There was the scuff of a boot on stone and then a voice swore in astonishment.

“Anders - is that you?” 

Anders opened his eyes and sat up, with help from Hawke; he glanced back over his shoulder as the black-haired Warden archer stepped out into the glow of Dorian’s magelight.

“Maker, it _is_ you!” exclaimed Nathaniel; he hurried forward as Anders got to his feet, and the two old friends embraced. Nathaniel slapped Anders on the back before pulling back slightly. “I thought you were dead! How is it I couldn’t feel you? What are you doing here, of all places?”

“Nathaniel, meet the Inquisitor,” said Hawke.

“The Inquisitor! Here? Where?” exclaimed Nathaniel as he glanced at the others.

“You’re standing right in front of him, Nathaniel,” Anders grinned ruefully. Nathaniel’s eyes widened.

“Andraste’s tits, Anders - what have you done now?”

“It’s a long story,” sighed Anders. “And you probably won’t believe the half of it....”

***

Nathaniel led them back to his hide-out in the labyrinth of caves near what remained of Old Crestwood. It was clear he’d been there some time. The three entrances to the large cave had been boarded up save for a door in each, no doubt by the smugglers whose hide-out the cave had formerly been. It was lit up by the cheery light of a fire and was pleasantly warm after the dank chill of the caves. Anders and the others stripped off their soaked outer things and spread them over crates to dry. Nathaniel had a pot of stew on the fire; between that and the field rations in their packs, they made a passable evening meal as they sat around the fire and slowly dried out. 

By the time Anders had finished his food, he was feeling decidedly more human. He’d filled Nathaniel in on much that had happened since he, Hawke and Varric had briefly encountered the Warden during the expedition to the Deep Roads so many years before.

“What’s been going on, Nathaniel?” asked Anders when the meal was over and they were sat around drinking mugs of hot tea. “What’s all this business about corruption in the ranks of the Wardens that Hawke’s mentioned? Might it have anything to do with Corypheus?”

“I’m afraid it likely is,” replied Nathaniel. “When you helped Hawke slay Corypheus, Weisshaupt was happy to put the matter to rest - but you know as well as I do that an archdemon can survive wounds that might seem fatal. Hawke’s no Warden, and though Corypheus isn’t an archdemon - well, a few of us wondered if perhaps the same thing might apply to him.” He paused to drain his mug. “Some of us started looking into things. Some of what we found out... well, let’s just say having a Warden-Commander stroll back up a few years after his Calling rang a few alarm bells. Larius went back to Orlais, and I managed to get myself assigned there not long after. And then not long after _that_ , every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

“Maker, Nathaniel, why didn’t you tell me?” exclaimed Hawke; Anders was straightening, staring at the raven-haired archer in dismay.

“It was a Grey Warden matter,” shrugged Nathaniel. “I was bound by an oath of secrecy.” He gave Anders a wry look. “Not that Anders ever cared much for such things, but _some_ of us still prefer to stick by the rules.”

“The Inquisitor has proven himself exceptionally discreet,” remarked Cassandra archly. Nathaniel raised an eyebrow.

“Oh ho, really? There’s a first for everything I suppose,” he smiled, as Anders squirmed uncomfortably.

“I don’t understand - what _is_ this Calling business?” asked Dorian as he leaned forward, curious. “Is it some kind of Grey Warden ritual?”

“No,” replied Anders heavily. “The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight will soon claim him. Starts with dreams. Then whispers in your head.” He stared into the fire. “You say your farewells and go to the Deep Roads one last time. The idea is that you die in combat - one last glorious fight against the darkspawn from which you never return. At least, that’s the theory, anyway. And no-one’s ever come back to say otherwise.”

“Except Larius,” said Hawke slowly. Anders nodded.

“Except Larius,” he agreed. He glanced up at Nathaniel. “And every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now? They think they’re dying? Oh Maker. Nate. I am so sorry.”

A look passed between the two Wardens; a shared fear, knowledge of what would lie ahead.

“Yes,” nodded the archer. “Likely because of Corypheus.” He stared down at the dregs in the bottom of his cup before glancing up at Hawke and the others. “If the Wardens fall, who will stand against the next Blight? It’s our greatest fear.”

“And frightened people do stupid things,” murmured Anders. “He’s not controlling them - he’s bluffing them with a false Calling.”

“And they’re falling for it,” said Hawke.

“So they make one last, desperate attack on the darkspawn,” said Anders, his eyes still on Nathaniel. The archer shrugged.

“We’re the only ones who can slay an archdemon and end a Blight,” he replied. “Without us, the next Blight will overrun all of Thedas.”

He got to his feet and began to slowly pace. “Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights before we all perished. When I and a few others protested the plan as madness, our own comrades turned on us.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know what happened to the others. I made it here and sent word to Hawke. After all, he killed Corypheus once. I figured if anyone could help, it would be him. When he told me he’d get word to the Inquisitor...” He turned and looked at Anders. “You were the last person I expected to show up. But I’m glad you did.”

Anders got to his feet. “Nate, there’s got to be a way to stop this.”

“I don’t understand,” said Nathaniel, shaking his head. “You knew I was here - you felt my presence. But I can’t feel you at all. And you’re not hearing the Calling?”

Anders shook his head. “No. I told you; I’m not a Warden any more, even if I still seem to have some of the abilities. I have no idea how.”

“A parting gift from Flemeth perhaps?” suggested Hawke. “No matter - as long as this doesn’t mean I’m about to lose you to your calling, love.” He glanced at Nathaniel as he rose to his feet. “Nathaniel, I’m really sorry. We’ll stop Corypheus, I swear it.”

Nathaniel turned away, nodding. He walked over towards a map spread on a table. “Grey Wardens are gathering here,” he said, tapping the map as Anders and Hawke moved to join him. The others looked at each other then rose to follow, gathering around the map. Nathaniel gestured to Orlais. “If you’ve been looking for the Wardens, that’s where you’ll find them - in the Western Approach.” He looked up at Anders. “It’s an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. Meet me there, and we’ll find answers. Together.”


	18. Chapter 18

Anders stared down at the former Mayor of Crestwood and felt sick to his stomach.

“Mayor Gregory Dedrick of Crestwood is present for betraying his own constituents,” announced Josephine as the grey-haired man stared up at Anders. She consulted her notes as she continued mounted the steps towards Anders. “He confesses that ten years ago, he flooded Old Crestwood to kill refugees and villagers touched by the Blight.”

Anders had seen the confession for himself, written in the man’s own hand and left behind. He’d already fled the village when Anders and the others returned the following morning after spending the night in the smuggler’s caves near Old Crestwood.

Josephine glanced at the former mayor before turning her attention back to Anders. “He claims it was to spare the rest of Crestwood, but we have only his word for that.”

Anders was aware of all eyes on him. Nausea churned in his stomach, hot and unpleasant, threatening to rise and choke him. Of all the places he wished could have been right there and then, sitting on that Maker-be-damned wooden throne passing judgement on someone was pretty low on his list. In fact it scraped in just above “in a prison cell” and “in a small confined space” but below “the Deep Roads” at present.

He’d argued against this quite vociferously as he paced in the war room only an hour previously.

“No! I am _not_ going to sit in judgement upon any man!” 

“Inquisitor -” began Josephine but broke off with a small squeak when Anders turned on his heel and pointed at her.

“No. Send him somewhere else. I will not do it! There’s a King and Queen on Ferelden’s throne; why send this man to _me_ for judgement?”

“Inquisitor, this man’s crimes occurred before they took the throne,” pointed out Leliana.

“So?” replied Anders belligerently. “They occurred before the Inquisition even existed!” He turned away and paced again. “Alright, if Alistair and Anora won’t touch him, what about the Wardens? Surely they should have a say before the Inquisition do?”

“Inquisitor, please listen to me -” pleaded Josephine but got no further as he turned and loomed over her, furious.

“No, _you_ listen to _me_. Don’t you think I damned well had enough of people sitting in judgement over me for twenty years in Kinloch, handing out punishment as they saw fit, a law unto themselves? I have scars on my back from such people, Josephine! Ask the Commander, he’s seen them! Maker knows, he _put_ some of them there!”

“Inquisitor!” exclaimed the horrified Ambassador.

“Anders,” said Cullen faintly; Anders turned and and glared at him until he saw how the blood had drained from the former templar’s face.

Just like that, the rage left him, and he felt cold. He stared at Cullen. 

He’d not been there with the Warden when she had rescued Cullen from Kinloch after Uldred’s uprising - he’d still been on the run after that terrible year in solitary, not yet recaptured by the templars and then conscripted - but she’d told him about it afterwards. He could only guess at the mental scars a man might have from that. He’d seen for himself just how the Order had cared for its own, throwing Cullen practically to the wolves in Kirkwall where Meredith had fastened onto his fear and hatred of mages with veritable glee. In their own ways, both he and Cullen had been let down and betrayed by the same system that should have protected and looked after him. 

Cullen had been little more than a raw recruit, still nervous and unsure of himself after his vigil and commissioning, the first time he’d been ordered to whip Anders - and the blond mage was already a veteran of several escapes by that point. He wouldn’t say he was exactly inured to the whip by then - but he’d long since learned to tune out the pain. He couldn’t have pointed to which scars amongst the many that crisscrossed his back, silvery and faded with age now, had been inflicted by the man if pressed to do so. 

As he saw the way Cullen dropped his gaze to the floor, Anders felt a pang of guilt. He’d thrown out the words without much thought; it was an easy way to lash out and make Cullen hurt. Cullen bitterly regretted all he’d done, everything he’d inflicted upon the mages under his protection. And he’d been one of the better ones in Anders’ last months at Kinloch, during that long dark time in solitude, before he finally fled for good. Anders had already come to terms with the way he’d been treated in the Circle; Cullen was still mentally grappling with the guilt of what he’d done as a templar.

Anders had quietly agreed to judge the mayor.

Now he stared down at the man, aware that the hall was silent as people waited for him to speak, and he wanted to throw up. He swallowed hard.

“If he has anything to say in his defence, let him speak.”

The man stared up at Anders. “There’s no cure for the Blight, but I couldn’t convince anyone to leave a sick child or husband behind,” he said.

“So you herded the infected into one place and flooded Old Crestwood?” said Josephine. “Were no innocents caught in the waters?” Her tone was one of outright scepticism.

“Nearly everyone in the village had the Blight, I swear it!” replied the man as he stared up at Anders. “Have mercy - I couldn’t tell the survivors I’d drowned their own families to save them, I-I _couldn’t_.”

Anders stared down at the man. He felt a terrible pity for him. If nothing else, his time in the Wardens had given him more than ample opportunity to learn for himself that the Blight could not be stopped or cured; the kindest thing one could do for the victims was to grant them a swift death. Anything else merely prolonged their suffering and increase the chances of it spreading further.

Maker knew he’d spent long enough trying in vain to save victims when no-one else would. It had felt so _wrong_ not to - he was a spirit healer, after all. But in the end, all he could do was to ease their pain a little and hold their hands as they died.

At least the victims in Crestwood would not have suffered long, he reflected. Could he have made that decision himself? He didn’t think he could have. But he understood why this man had. It was a move born of desperation.

“You are right,” Anders said quietly, his voice nonetheless carrying in the hall. “There is no cure for the Blight. It is a slow, painful, lingering and inevitable death. Doubtless by your actions you spared many more from such a fate, and granted the victims a swifter death than they would otherwise have suffered.”

He was aware of a ripple of whispers and low murmurs spreading through the hall as he straightened. “I do not envy you the burden of making that decision,” he went on, his voice a little louder now. “In desperate times men will do desperate things. But I cannot condone your cowardice afterwards in concealing what you did. That was not done out of desperation, and nor was the way you fled after making your confession in a note. You must have known the day would come when what you did would finally come to light. Instead of accepting and acknowledging your role, you fled, leaving the survivors no closure.” He rose to his feet. “Gregory Dedrick, I give you to the Grey Wardens, to fight darkspawn until your Calling or until the next Blight, whichever comes sooner. You will depart for Weisshaupt immediately.”

“I don’t deserve the honour, your Worship, but I’ll do my best,” replied Dedrick. 

A guard stepped forward and released Dedrick from his manacles. Dedrick bowed low to Anders before he turned and left the hall, escorted by two guards.

The moment the man was gone, Anders leapt down from the dais and rapidly strode from the hall. He heard someone call his name but he didn’t look back. He took the stairs up to his room two at a time and slammed the door behind him.

He managed to make it to the privy before he threw up.

“Anders?”

Maker, Hawke had followed him. Of _course_ he had. Anders leaned against the closed door of the privy and stared at the wall, fighting to control his breathing and calm his racing heart. He felt cold and queasy, his stomach still churning uneasily.

“Anders, I know you’re up here. There’s nowhere else you could be. Come on love. Come out and stop hiding.”

Anders wiped his mouth with the back of a hand that trembled slightly then turned and pushed the door open.

“I wasn’t hiding,” he said tersely. He made his way towards his desk but halted as Hawke stepped in front of him.

“You let him go - why?” the Champion asked him.

Anders laughed mirthlessly. “You think I was too lenient on him? You think I let him go?” he exclaimed. “Maker, did you not listen when I tried to tell you? Hawke, I gave him a death sentence. If he survives the Joining - and believe me, one in three don’t, and we still don’t know why - then he’ll have perhaps thirty years tops before he dies a horrible, gruesome death, assuming he doesn’t die on some trip into the Deep Roads before then. The life of a Warden isn’t freedom, Hawke, no matter how it might appear otherwise.”

“But _you_ escaped,” said Hawke as he laid his hands upon the blond mage’s shoulders, holding him in place.

“Hawke, you’ve seen how I’m plagued by nightmares,” exclaimed Anders testily. “You’ve seen how the Deep Roads affect me - the effect Corypheus had at Vinmark. And we both saw Larius. No matter how far I run, that fate will still be waiting for me - and sooner than you might think. If I’m lucky, something else will kill me before I have to go down into the Deep Roads for the last time. But make no mistake - I haven’t freed Dedrick. I gave him a death sentence; he simply doesn’t know it yet.”

“But Flemeth healed you,” protested Hawke. “Nathaniel couldn’t feel any trace of the taint in you!”

“Then how is it that I could still feel it in him?” demanded Anders as he stared back at the other man. “Maybe the Mark masks it somehow, maybe - Maker, Garrett, I don’t know! But I can still feel Wardens and darkspawn. And I can’t help but feel I haven’t escaped a Warden’s fate. I still have the dreams. Maybe I can’t hear this Calling of Corypheus’ - maybe the Mark protects me from that. But my dreams are as bad as ever they were. And now Dedrick will get to experience that for himself - if he should survive the Joining.”

He pulled away from Hawke, swallowing hard to try and quell the uneasy nausea that sat, hot and sour, in his stomach as he made his way around the desk and dropped into his chair.

Hawke began to pace slowly. “I need to leave for the Western Approach,” he said slowly. “I told Nathaniel I’d go on ahead and help scout around the tower. But I don’t want to leave you again so soon after finding you. Not when I see you like this.” He turned and looked at Anders, then grinned lopsidedly. “Maker only knows what kind of a mess you might get into without me.”

“No worse than I’ve been in thus far,” Anders shrugged. “Besides, to be honest most of the trouble in Kirkwall, _you_ were the one dragging _us_ into.” He began ticking things off on his fingers. “The Bone Pit? You. Tal Vashoth? You. That dwarven merchant who wanted to get his hands on Gaatlok? You. The mess with the wyverns and that Tallis woman in Orlais? You. Maker, even Corypheus in the first place was you, in a way, and here I am clearing up _your_ mess! Tell you what, let’s call Varric in to call the score shall we?”

“The Chantry was all you though,” said Hawke angrily. 

Anders’ head snapped up and he glared at Hawke; he could feel the blood draining from his face. “You think I don’t know that?” he whispered as he rose from his chair. “You think I can ever forget? You think I don’t hear the screams in my dreams every damned night?”

“Anders -” began Hawke, a look of regret in his eyes. “Love, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get. Out.” Anders glared at Hawke, and felt a pulse of pain in the palm of his hand as the Mark suddenly flashed green. The incredulous look of startlement upon Hawke’s face would almost have been comical if Anders had been in the mood to appreciate it. 

“Now listen here, Anders -” began Hawke as he took a step towards the desk, his tone conciliatory. “I was angry, but -”

“I will meet you in the Western Approach,” said Anders coldly as he turned away, clenching his fist closed over the pulsating green light in his palm. “Send word when you find the Wardens.”

“So that’s how it is then?” said Hawke quietly. “I see... _Inquisitor_.”

He heard Hawke’s footsteps, heavy and slow, as the former Champion of Kirkwall walked away. Anders closed his eyes and held still until the door had closed behind Hawke, and then he dropped back into his chair with a low groan before dropping his head into his hands, the Mark quiescent once more.

He had no idea how long he sat like that before he heard a knock at his door. He sighed wordlessly as he straightened in his chair. “Come in,” he called as he reached for the top report sitting on the stack upon his desk.

“Forgive me, Inquisitor, but there is something I wished to discuss with you,” said Mother Giselle as she entered. She paused as she took in his weary expression. “Inquisitor? Are you not well?”

“I’m fine; just a little tired,” shrugged Anders as he beckoned the priestess in. “What can I do for you, Reverend Mother?”

“I have news regarding one of your... companions,” she answered as she took the chair opposite Anders. “The... Tevinter.”

Anders frowned. “Dorian? What of him? Is that a note of distaste I hear in your voice, Mother Giselle?” His frown deepened as he threw the report back down upon his desk, unread.

“I... admit his presence here makes me uncomfortable, Inquisitor,” she replied slowly. “But my feelings are of no importance.” She straightened the hem of her tabard as her gaze dipped for a moment, evidently choosing her next words carefully. “I have been in contact with his family; House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”

“Are you suggesting that a wanted apostate such as myself would have had dealings with Tevinter magisters?” Anders remarked wrily. He was certain the Reverend Mother knew his identity by now; after the assassination attempt, it was more or less an open secret in Skyhold anyway.

“I meant no offence, Inquisitor,” she said, almost primly.

“None taken,” Anders replied as he leaned back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully. “I know they’re not on good terms, but nothing more than that.”

“I believe you are correct,” Mother Giselle replied, inclining her head slightly. “The family sent a letter describing the estrangement from their son and pleading for my aid. They’ve asked to arrange a meeting, quietly, without telling him. They fear it’s the only way he’ll come.”

“You mean to deceive him?” said Anders, his frown deepening as he straightened. “I can’t imagine Dorian would respond at all well to that.”

“You appear to be... quite close to the young man, Inquisitor,” the priestess ventured.

“I consider Dorian a friend. I will not be a party to their deception,” said Anders coldly, though inwardly he was seething. 

“And I would not ask you to be one, Inquisitor,” she nodded. “These are parents, concerned for the welfare of their son - but he is your trusted companion. I would speak to the young man myself but... he does not care for me. I find myself uncertain as to the right course of action, and thus I come to you. I trust your judgement. Perhaps I may leave this matter in your hands?” She produced a letter from a pocket beneath her tabard and held it out to him.

Anders took it and stared down at it thoughtfully, then opened it and scanned the contents. “They want you to persuade him to this meeting under some pretense?” he said, glancing up at Mother Giselle.

“Yes... but does it not lead to a greater kindness if there is potential for reconciliation?” she suggested.

“It stinks of a trap,” said Anders as he tossed the letter down on his desk between them.

“That thought did occur to me,” nodded Mother Giselle. “What if it is a plot of those mages, the... Venatori? Another reason to leave it in your hands, Inquisitor.” She sighed. “I pray that isn’t the case, but you are far better equipped than I to deal with such treachery.”

Anders rose to his feet. “You may leave the matter with me, Mother Giselle.”

She likewise rose to her feet and inclined her head graciously. “The Maker guide you, Inquisitor.”

“And you, Mother Giselle,” he nodded.

He picked up the letter once she had gone, and began to pace slowly as he reread it. Whoever this Halward Pavus was, Anders already disliked him on principle. Dorian had given him no reason to distrust him, and the thought that the young Altus’ father would seek a meeting with him by such subterfuge worried Anders. Dorian spoke of his family little, but Anders had the distinct impression the Tevinter mage had left his homeland under something of a cloud. Anders had spent most of his life running away in one way or another, and he could recognise the signs of someone fleeing when he saw them.

Maker, what was he to do about this? He stared at the letter, then glanced around the room. Mother Giselle had left the matter in his hands; he could simply choose to do nothing about it. If he said nothing, eventually this retainer of House Pavus would presumably have to go back empty-handed to Tevinter, or wherever Dorian’s parents were. And yet....

He leaned against the edge of his desk, head bowed in thought. He had few memories of his own father; a loud voice, a raised fist, hands shoving him down into the dark of the root cellar. But his mother....

He had often wondered what had become of his mother. He had last seen her lying far too still in the dusty road, felled by the fist of a templar. He didn’t even know if she still lived. He knew that if he had received a letter from her begging to see him, then nothing in all of Thedas could have kept him back from such a meeting. Should Dorian not have such a chance? He’d never spoken of his mother, but surely he must love her? He remembered how devastated Garrett had been over Leandra’s death.

Well, whatever Halward Pavus had in mind, Anders was determined that Dorian should decide for himself whether he wanted to be a party to such a meeting or not.

He pushed himself away from the desk and headed off in search of Dorian. He would leave it up to the Altus.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat with Dorian, and a heart-to-heart with the Iron Bull.

He found Dorian in the library, leafing through a book; the Altus glanced up with a distracted frown as Anders’ shadow fell across the page, then smiled as he recognised the other mage.

“Ah, Inquisitor!” He set the book aside upon a nearby shelf. “Something upon your mind?”

Anders hesitated as he stared at Dorian. He finally decided to take the direct approach.

“There’s... a letter you should see,” he said

“A letter?” A smirk crossed Dorian’s face as he folded his arms and leaned against the bookshelf. “Is it a naughty letter? A humourous proposal from some Antivan dowager?” There was a twinkle in his grey eyes as he regarded Anders with an easy grin.

“Not quite,” replied Anders as he shuffled slightly. He found it hard to meet Dorian’s gaze as he slowly admitted, “It’s... from your father.”

The smile died upon Dorian’s lips, and a haunted look came to his eyes before he glanced away, his body suddenly tense. “From my father. I... see.” He inspected his nails with almost studied casualness that belied the stiffness of his body. “And what does Magister Pavus want, pray tell?”

Anders hated himself for being the one to disturb Dorian’s composure like this. The Altus was masking it well; to anyone else in the library he would have seemed relaxed and at ease, but Anders could see all too clearly the tight control Dorian held himself in. The Tevinter mage had always seemed the epitome of studied poise - so to see him thrown even slightly off-kilter like this was disconcerting.

“A meeting,” Anders answered, and something seemed to go out of Dorian.

“You’d better show me this letter,” replied the Altus with a note of weary resignation.

He led the way to his room and poured them both a glass of wine; Anders took his out of politeness, watching Dorian worriedly as the Altus paced, scanning the letter as his brow furrowed into an angry frown until finally he turned to Anders and brandished the letter, his eyes flashing with fury.

“‘I know my son’?” he spat bitterly. “What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble! This is so typical! I’m willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter!”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “You think I’ll just stand there and let them do it, Dorian?” he asked quietly.

“He expects me to travel with Mother Giselle, although Maker knows why he would,” the Altus snapped as he turned and began pacing again before Anders’ words finally registered and he turned back. “Wait. You’d - you mean to come with me?”

“You surely didn’t think I’d just let you go off alone, did you?” Anders snorted. “Not a chance. I have few enough friends as it is; Maker knows I’m not going to take the chance of losing one of them. Of course I’m coming.”

“You consider me a friend?” Dorian’s tone was calmer, if a little bemused.

Anders shook his head. “I think we went a little bit beyond merely ‘friends’ when you kissed me,” he smirked. “Of course I do. You’re one of the few people in Skyhold I actually trust - who seems to view me as more than the title I never asked for. Even if you _are_ an incorrigible flirt.”

Dorian smiled ruefully. “Yes, I suppose I - I suppose I _am_ , aren’t I? No offence taken, I hope? I know you’ve got Hawke, and so forth - but you _are_ a very attractive man and, well, it’s just my way I suppose.” His eyes shifted away from Anders and he turned away slightly, and Anders suddenly realised the other man was nervous. What of, he wasn’t sure; it seemed very unlike the Altus, who had always exuded this air of smooth confidence that Anders had often envied. He hadn’t thought anything could have shaken Dorian’s composure, but in a very short space of time he’d now been proven very wrong twice in quick succession. He’d thought at first that Dorian had reminded him very much of himself back in the days when he was still imprisoned in the Circle at Kinloch - and it seemed that Dorian’s facade hid just as much as Anders’ had. The more he got to know the Tevinter Altus, the more he came to understand how alike they both were.

 _Getting into dangerous territory there,_ Anders thought to himself. The kiss didn’t have to mean anything. Dorian was a flirt; that was all there was to it - it was evident that Dorian himself had intended nothing more than a casual liaison - certainly, he hadn’t curtailed his flirting with anything that breathed and walked on two legs, for instance - and Anders himself no longer felt right with the idea of something meaningless and purely physical. 

His thoughts were conflicted after all that had happened with Hawke. He had missed him so painfully; and yet Hawke had changed so much. It had been a relief when Hawke left; he could put aside his painful and confusing feelings - the hurt and longing mingled that had made him long for and yet dread Hawke’s presence in equal measure. But he wasn’t yet ready to think about anything further than friendship with anyone - even if he had to concede to a certain attraction to the man with storm-grey eyes regarding him with uncharacteristic nervousness. Maybe more than just a little.

“Dorian...” he began, but the Altus seemed to pull himself together as he turned back to Anders with a bright yet brittle smile, eyes shuttered once more - as though he’d pulled on an Orlesian mask. 

“Let’s go then - let’s go meet this ‘family retainer’,” he said, an acid bite to his tongue. “They won’t be expecting _you_ , that’s for certain.”

***

It would take them a week of steady riding to reach Redcliffe and the Gull and Lantern Tavern where the Pavus family retainer was expecting Mother Giselle and Dorian. There had been something of an argument when Anders had announced he was riding off on a private mission with Dorian; Cullen had wanted to send a troop of Inquisition forces with them, and took it badly when Anders put his foot down and flatly refused. Cullen wasn’t used to being baulked, but Anders had had enough of being pushed around. He was always expected to travel hither and yon at the bidding of the inner council for this mission or that, with one or more members of the inner circle - often Dorian and Varric, and always Iron Bull. Dorian had never once complained about being dragged away from his own private research (though often about the weather and the need for camping out of doors - and frankly after far too many years of being on the run, not to mention months of living under canvas with the Inquisition, Anders honestly couldn’t say he blamed him), and Anders felt it was high time he did something just for Dorian.

In the end, the Commander had conceded to Anders, with the proviso that he take the Iron Bull and Varric along in case it should prove to be a Venatori ploy. Anders couldn’t think of any real objections so had conceded; and perhaps with the Iron Bull and Varric along as well, it might put a welcome buffer between himself and Dorian to avoid things becoming too intense. Sharing one tent together would have been difficult; Anders knew himself too well to think that several days spent sleeping alongside each other wouldn’t have led to embarrassment at some point. He had always been a physically-affectionate person by nature (not that he’d had much chance to be physically affectionate with anyone, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t _wanted_ to) and Hawke and Fenris had both teased him often about being a cuddly sleeper. He wasn’t sure how he would have been able to face Dorian if he’d woken up to find himself snuggled up to the other mage, and it would have put the lie to any pretence at being disinterested in anything beyond friendship between them. 

He would have preferred to share a tent with Varric - the dwarf at least was used to Anders’ habit of unconsciously snuggling up against any bedfellows and it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d have woken up with his face snuggled against Varric’s chest hair whilst the dwarf chuckled softly. But the Iron Bull had seemingly assumed that as Anders’ bodyguard (a position he took even more seriously than ever since Anders’ poisoning it seemed, which the massive kossith had taken as a personal failing he was determined not to repeat), he would be sharing a tent with the Inquisitor, leaving Varric and Dorian to share.

Anders felt acutely self-conscious that first night. He’d put off the moment when he had to retire to bed as long as possible; it was only after Varric had teasingly chided him for the third time about nearly nodding off to sleep as he stared into the fire that he finally nodded and headed towards the tent, Bull following a couple of steps behind.

“Sleep well, Blondie!” called Varric; Anders could hear the smirk in his voice and lifted a hand in goodnight as he bent to enter his tent.

There was one perk to sharing a tent with Bull, he reflected, as he unrolled his bedroll then sat down to unbuckle his boots whilst Bull busied himself with unbuckling his chest harness and pauldron; the huge kossith, of necessity, had to have a rather larger and more spacious tent than most other members of the Inquisition; not quite as large as the pavilion Anders had slept in whilst on the move with the other Inquisition forces, but decidedly roomier than the two-man tents the others usually shared. On most of their trips out, it was generally presumed that the Inquisitor would prefer to sleep alone - which, whilst he appreciated the privacy, had often left Anders feeling rather cold and lonely. One person alone didn’t do much to warm up the confines of a tent meant for two, after all. But with only the four of them on this trip he hadn’t seen the point in three tents.

Anders stripped down to his shirt and pants then pulled up his blankets, aware that the Iron Bull was regarding him speculatively.

“What?” he asked, a touch more tetchily than perhaps he’d intended.

“It would have made more sense for you to bunk with the Vint, Boss,” remarked Bull, unperturbed. “I’m curious why you didn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bunked with Varric, and you obviously are fond of the Vint.”

“Dorian,” snapped Anders. “His name is Dorian, not ‘the Vint’.”

Bull merely raised an eyebrow, and Anders sighed.

“I can’t, Bull,” he said softly. “You know why.”

“Hawke,” replied the Iron Bull, and Anders nodded. “Seems to me,” Bull went on, “That you’ve seemed rather more relaxed since Hawke left, Boss. Not my business - but you didn’t exactly seem as happy to be around him as one might expect for a guy who’s been supposedly missing the love of his life for months.”

“Bull,” said Anders warningly.

“Boss, I’m only saying what everyone could see for themselves. You think I’m the only one with eyes and ears? We could see how he was treating you. We were all wondering why you put up with it for so long.”

Anders glanced over at the huge kossith, but far from the look of pity he’d expected yet dreaded, he saw only a look of sympathetic understanding on the Iron Bull’s scarred features as he sat on his bedroll regarding Anders thoughtfully.

The blond mage rolled onto his side to face the Iron Bull and sighed. “I _do_ love him, Bull. Honest. But....”

“He’s changed,” nodded Bull. “He’s not the same man you thought you loved. He doesn’t make you happy the way he did once; he hurts you, and you’re not really sure if he’s doing it deliberately or not.”

“I deserve it,” Anders said softly. The Iron Bull shook his head.

“No, Boss. No-one deserves that from someone who’s supposed to love them. That’s not love Boss, even when they say all the right things and dress it up with kisses and smiles. There’s a word for it, and it’s not a pretty word.”

“Don’t,” breathed Anders, aching inside.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Boss. Just as long as you can see for yourself what he was doing to you.”

Anders rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his arms as he groaned. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Bull,” he moaned. “I’d already hurt him enough; we were _happy_ in Kirkwall, but I couldn’t see past my own obsession with waking up the mages, finally breaking them free - I wasn’t supposed to have survived that; I hadn’t been able to see past the Chantry’s destruction. I’d assumed that the price for change would be my death, and it _should_ have been.”

“But you survived and found life goes on,” the Bull rumbled quietly. Anders nodded.

“I tried to move on. He deserved a fresh start - one I couldn’t ruin for him.”

“It ever occur to you that maybe some people don’t want a fresh start, Boss?” asked the Iron Bull.

Anders laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve gotten that idea, yes,” he agreed. “It wasn’t fair on him though - always living on the run, having to take the consequences of what I’d done. And Cassandra was searching for him. It was better for him to think me dead. Let me _be_ dead. Let Anders die in the Temple of Ashes. I couldn’t hurt him any more then, d’you see?” He was crying. When had he started crying? His face was wet, and it was getting harder to get the words out.

“But you were lonely,” said the Bull. “Hey. I understand that, Boss. And the Vint was friendly, easy on the eyes, made it clear he was interested. Easy to move on, maybe, as someone else.”

“But I couldn’t,” Anders gasped. “I still loved Hawke. I missed him. I - I couldn’t, I _wanted_ \- Maker, I still _do_ , but -”

“But you couldn’t,” nodded the Bull. “You felt you owed it to Hawke. And then Hawke showed up, and it was nothing like how you’d hoped.”

Anders bit back a sob, and then he felt a large, warm hand settle gently on his shoulder.

“Boss, back in Haven, I asked you if you were OK. You remember?”

Anders nodded, feeling the tears running down his face as his breathing turned ragged. “I - I remember. I said I was fine.”

“And I told you that if you ever decide that’s not the case any longer, I’m happy to listen. Well, I’m listening, Boss.”

It was too much; Anders couldn’t keep it in any longer, and he let out a ragged sob as he felt his shoulders begin to shake beneath that warm, comforting hand that started to rub gentle circles over his back.

“Come here,” said the Iron Bull gently, his voice a low rumble; and Anders just gave in. He let the Bull pull him close, and he rested his cheek against the broad, comforting chest and let the kossith hold him close as he cried. He felt Bull’s chest vibrate soothingly as he rumbled quietly to Anders to let it all out, one large warm hand gently stroking his dishevelled hair.

“I know,” said the Bull softly. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Hawke showed up, and it was a shock but you’d missed him. And then he hurt you, and kept hurting you, even as he told you he loved you. And you told yourself that maybe he didn’t mean it, he didn’t realise how much he was hurting you, because he still kissed you and told you he loved you even when it felt wrong. And now he’s gone and you feel guilty because you feel relieved that he won’t be hurting you any more, and you don’t know if you should miss him, or feel guilty because you don’t. And you like the Vint and you’d like to do more than just like him, but you feel guilty that you can feel that way because you still love Hawke even after what he did to you. That about the shape of it, Boss?”

“Yes,” Anders confessed. “Damn you, you’re too good at this,” he added as he scrubbed at his face with his hand. “I’d almost think you’d been asking Cole to snoop in my mind.”

“I don’t need no spirit to see what’s under my nose, Boss,” shrugged the Bull. “Ben-Hassrath, remember? It’s my business to see stuff like that. I’m here to look out for you.”

“Do - do the big comforting hugs come as part of the deal?” sniffed Anders with a tearful smile. The Iron Bull grinned.

“For you? Sure,” he agreed. “Seemed to me you could use one. Always here any time you do, Boss - that and more. Seems to me maybe you could use someone looking out for your interests, y’know?”

“Are you offering, then, Bull?” asked Anders quietly. He was feeling exhausted after the catharsis of tears, his body tired and his eyelids heavy, and Bull’s hand stroking his hair was soothing.

“Always, Boss. Though it’s not really me you want, is it?” rumbled the Bull quietly. 

“Bull... don’t,” Anders sighed sleepily.

“All I’m saying is, maybe you should give him a chance. I’m not one to go pushing when there’s no real interest, but when someone’s waving a flag at you - well, you’d have to be blind or a fool not to see it, is all I’m saying.” Bull stroked his hair gently as he spoke. Anders thought he heard a muffled exclamation from somewhere near at hand, but he was too drowsy to really pay much attention.

He fell asleep like that, cradled against the Iron Bull’s chest.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation at the Gull and Lantern, and then talk by the fireside.

He felt self-conscious the following morning when he woke up to find himself still cuddled up with Bull; the Qunari warrior was comfortingly matter-of-fact about the whole thing however and shrugged off his apologies. Anders had to ruefully admit he’d desperately needed the closeness of being held and that he’d slept far better for the physical contact of Bull’s comforting presence, the massive kossith curled protectively around him. Waking up to feel an arm around his waist, soft breathing in his hair, a warm chest pressed against his back - and no fear of anything more than simply being snuggled - was...nice.

When he emerged from the tent a short while later, he stumbled over to the remains of last night’s fire and threw on a few extra sticks of wood before dredging together enough concentration necessary to reignite it with a wave of his hand. He set a kettle of water over the fire then sat down on a fallen log and rubbed his face sleepily as he waited for the water to boil for tea.

Varric patted him on the shoulder as he emerged from the tent he’d shared with Dorian the previous night. Anders glanced up as Dorian emerged after him and made straight for the bushes without looking at either man. Anders glanced at Varric, then groaned as he saw the sympathetic look on the dwarf’s face.

“Maker. You both heard everything last night, didn’t you?” he sighed.

“Sorry, Blondie,” shrugged Varric as he sat down on the log next to Anders. “Would have been hard not to.” He leaned over and patted Anders on the knee. 

Anders found he couldn’t meet Dorian’s eyes when the Tevinter Altus finally returned from the bushes. Instead he kept his eyes on the kettle until it had begun to steam merrily away. He reached out for the iron handle without thinking, then swore as he felt the hot metal burning his fingers. He set the kettle down hastily, still swearing a blue streak, then shook his fingers with a wince.

Dorian had jumped up. “ _Venhedis_ \- your hand!” He leapt forward and grasped Anders’ hand and laid his own palm over the reddened skin of Anders’ right palm and the pads of his fingers, drawing on his magic to call up a little ice to cool and soothe the burnt flesh, even as Varric jumped up to fumble for an elfroot potion and the Iron Bull emerged hastily from his tent with a look of concern.

“No, it’s alright, it’s - it’s not that bad!” Anders protested. He tried to pull away but Dorian still held him firmly by the wrist. He lifted his eyes from his burnt hand to find Dorian’s grey eyes regarding him with worry and concern; and he was suddenly keenly aware of how close they stood together.

The moment was broken as Varric came forward to shove the elfroot potion at Anders. “Come on, Blondie; take this - we can’t afford to have you crippled by a burn. Cassandra would have my guts for garters if she thought we’d let you get hurt just making a cup of tea!”

“It’s alright,” Anders repeated, quieter. “I can heal myself.” He glanced back at Dorian but the Altus was already stepping away, the moment gone. Anders felt an odd wistfulness as the other mage bent to pick up the kettle with a piece of rag wrapped protectively around his hand and begin brewing tea for them all, his attention focused on the task. 

He sighed inwardly and instead turned his own attention to channelling a little healing magic to ease the pain of scorched fingers and palm, gently healing his hand.

“You alright, Boss?” asked the Bull, concerned. Anders nodded.

“Yes; I just wasn’t really paying attention to what I was doing. No permanent harm done, see?” He held up his hand and wriggled freshly-healed fingers at the Bull to reassure him. “I’ll be fine. I’m certainly awake now.”

“Glad to hear it,” replied Dorian a little coolly as he handed Anders a cup of freshly-brewed tea before taking a sip of his own. 

“I, ah, understand that that’s not the only thing you’ve heard,” Anders murmured quietly. “Dorian -”

“We should be on our way as soon as possible,” Dorian interrupted him as he moved away. “We still have a long ride ahead of us. Do drink up, Inquisitor; my father does so hate to be kept waiting.” His tone was sharp and acerbic as he turned and headed back to the tent he’d shared with Varric.

_So it’s back to ‘Inquisitor’ again,_ Anders thought to himself, and felt an odd little chill inside. He watched him go and felt... well, he wasn’t sure _what_ to feel, truth be told. Dorian had evidently heard his little breakdown with the Bull, and given the way the Tevinter altus had been flirting with him ever since he first met the man, pretty much, Anders would have thought that hearing he actually was more than a little interested would have just encouraged Dorian even more. Instead, it seemed to have done the opposite.

Anders frowned as he turned away to sip at his own tea. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe the flirting and everything else really _didn’t_ mean anything after all; maybe it was all show, and the altus wasn’t looking for anything more than perhaps a quick fuck - skin-deep and no more. Anders evidently came with far more emotional baggage than Dorian cared to handle.

That... hurt, actually. Though perhaps not as much as if it had been Dorian himself he’d broken down in front of - that would have been downright humiliating, to confess all that and then have Dorian turn away, make it clear he wasn’t interested after all.

Well. Better that he knew now, rather than further down the road after letting things... _happen_. 

This was why he’d fought so hard against getting involved with Hawke in the first place though. He’d done enough shallow bed-hopping and had enough meaningless sex in life in his younger days, but he just couldn’t do it any more; the thought of baring himself, opening up, letting himself start to fall in love - he couldn’t afford to let himself do that again. It may feel uncomfortable now, but it would have hurt far worse if he’d let himself actually start to fall in love only to find it was only a casual fuck after all. He couldn’t do that.

He drew a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. Well. This would make things a bit awkward and uncomfortable for a while, but he’d promised Dorian he would be with him when he confronted his father, and he would stick to his word.

He downed his tea then headed back into his tent to pack up his gear. The sooner they got to Redcliffe, the sooner they could get this over and done with and be back to Skyhold and he could work on putting all this behind him.

He couldn’t shake the memory of those storm-grey eyes regarding him with worry however; or the feel of his hand cradled in Dorian’s.

***

Dorian had ridden all the way to Redcliffe in a withdrawn silence which Anders had found himself unable to break. Varric had eventually given up when he failed to draw either of them into conversation despite repeated tries; he finally desisted when the Iron Bull merely shook his head slightly.

They reached the inn a couple of hours before sundown; Varric and the Iron Bull had remained outside - ostensibly to tend to the horses - whilst Dorian and Anders went inside.

They found the Gull and Lantern empty and deserted, though Redcliffe village as they’d rode through had certainly seemed busy enough with people going about their daily business. By this time of day the inn should have been quite busy.

“Uh-oh,” said Dorian as he glanced around, already on edge. “No-one’s here. This doesn’t bode well.”

There was a creak from the steps leading to the upper story, and then a dry voice cleared its throat. “Dorian.”

The Tevinter altus went still, and then he turned slowly towards the sound of that voice. “Father,” he said.

The man who stood upon the stairs was dressed in a long dark green robe trimmed with gold in ornate Tevene style, a paler green capelet about the shoulders. He had a haughty, regal bearing that reminded Anders a little of Danarius; one look at the man’s face however, and he could not have mistaken this man for anyone other than Dorian’s father, the magister Halward Pavus. Like Dorian, he had black hair, though his was silvered at the temples and his eyes were brown rather than Dorian’s stormy grey which presently resembled flint - hard and cold as he glared at the elder Pavus.

“So, the whole story about a family retainer was, what? A smoke screen?” sneered Dorian.

“Then you were told?” said Halward as he approached closer. He glanced to Anders. “I apologise for the deception, Inquisitor; I never intended for you to be involved.”

Something about Halward distinctly rubbed Anders up the wrong way. Maybe it was the dress and mannerisms, recalling Fenris’ old master - or maybe it was simply the effect his father’s presence had on Dorian himself. Whatever it was, Anders felt himself bristling as he unconsciously straightened and stepped forward to stand at Dorian’s side.

“Maybe so - but here I am anyway,” he replied challengingly. “What’s the matter - afraid to be seen in public talking to me?” He cocked his head to one side.

“Of course,” agreed Dorian. “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor; what would people think?” His voice was dripping with venom as he glared at his father in open hostility. “What is this exactly, father?” he added, his voice dropping dangerously. “Ambush? A kidnapping?” His tone turned dark and bitter. “Warm family reunion?”

Halward sighed. “This is how it has always been,” he said in a weary tone as he glanced to Anders as if to say, _Look at how unreasonable he’s being!_

Anders’ stare was ice-cold. “You asked for Dorian. He’s here. If you have anything to say, say it then have done.”

Dorian glanced to Anders, then looked back at his father. “Yes, Father - talk to me,” he said. “Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger.”

“Dorian,” began Halward. “There’s no need to -”

Dorian turned away, a tight, almost apprehensive look upon his face as he glanced to the floor to Anders’ right rather than directly at him. “I prefer the company of men,” he said tersely. “My father disapproves.” 

“Excuse me?” Anders blinked, surprised that such a thing should be an issue. From the look of sudden irritation and anger that crossed Dorian’s face, evidently the altus misinterpreted the source of his confusion.

“Did I stutter?” he snapped. “Men, and the company thereof! As in sex! Surely you’ve heard of it?”

“Heard of it? I’ve done it. Frequently, in fact,” replied Anders drily. “Enjoyed it, too.”

“No, the Herald of Andraste?” replied Dorian in mock surprise. “I am shocked and scandalised! Now I’m wondering how they’ll work _that_ into a verse of the Chant.” His eyes finally met those of Anders, and a small ghost of a smile played across his lips.

“I should have known that was what this was about,” said Halward in a tone of deep disapproval.

Dorian turned upon him. “No! You don’t get to make those assumptions. You know _nothing_ about the Inquisitor.” He glared at his father.

“This display is uncalled for,” said Halward stiffly.

“No, it _is_ called for,” Dorian corrected him. “ _You_ called for it by luring me here.”

“This is not what I wanted,” said Halward as he shook his head.

“I’m _never_ what you wanted, father,” snapped Dorian. “Or had you forgotten?”

“So this is what it’s all about?” said Anders in surprise. “Who you sleep with?”

“That’s not... _all_ it’s about,” said Dorian, quieter, once again not meeting Anders’ eye.

“Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen to me....” asked Halward.

“Why?” Dorian flung out, challengingly. “So you can spout more convenient lies?” He walked towards his father, one finger darting out to jab his father in the chest.

“ _He_ taught me to hate blood magic,” he flung back over his shoulder to Anders. “‘The last resort of a weak mind.’ Those are _his_ words.” He stared into his father’s eyes angrily. “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to... to _change_ me!” Dorian’s voice broke on the final words, his anger replaced by hurt and pain as he backed away from his father, shaking his head; and Anders felt a rush of anger and protectiveness towards Dorian.

“Wait - he actually used blood magic on you?” he exclaimed in horror as he moved forward. He stared at Halward. “What’s wrong with you? Are you _mad?_ He’s your _son!_ ”

“I only wanted what was best for you!” protested Halward to Dorian.

“You wanted the best for _you_!” corrected Dorian, once again plunging into fierce anger. “For your _fucking legacy!_ Anything for that!”

Anders strode forward, furious. “You used blood magic on your own flesh and blood - I can’t believe it! You could have scrambled his mind, turning him into a living vegetable - and all for what? Your own social standing?” He could hear his own voice shaking with his fury as he pushed forward into the magister’s personal space. Halward backed away in alarm as Anders’ voice steadily rose. “What kind of a man are you??”

“Trevelyan!” exclaimed Dorian. 

The surprise and sudden worry in Dorian’s voice checked him. He held Halward’s gaze, his own as cold as ice. “Let me make something very clear to you, Magister Pavus,” he said softly. “This is not Tevinter. Dorian is his own man, and a respected one within the Inquisition. What happens here depends entirely on what _he_ chooses to do - not you. Am I clear?”

He turned away on his heel without waiting for an answer. He made his way back to Dorian, who had turned away to lean against the empty bar several feet away.

“Do you want to listen to him any longer?” he asked the altus very quietly. “It’s entirely up to you. If you want to leave, we’ll walk out that door right now and he can’t touch you. If you want to talk, I’ll step outside and give you peace.”

“If it were your father, what would you do?” asked Dorian, his voice quiet and withdrawn, not looking up. Anders snorted softly.

“My father gave me to the templars when I was thirteen,” he replied, a hint of bitterness creeping in. “I’d likely tell him to go fuck himself and the horse he rode in on. But... I’d want to know why. Whether he regretted it. And if it were my mother? I’d... I’d want to talk. At least one last time.”

Dorian finally turned to meet his gaze with a small sigh. As they straightened, Anders let his hand rest on Dorian’s shoulder and tightened it briefly.

Dorian turned to confront his father once more. “Tell me why you came,” he demanded as he walked towards Halward.

“If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition....”

“You didn’t,” snapped Dorian. “I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once, I had a father who would have known that.” He turned on his heel, but before he had taken more than two steps towards Anders, his father’s voice rasped out from behind.

“Once, I had a son who trusted me,” said Halward. Dorian halted. “A trust I betrayed,” Halward went on. “I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”

Dorian turned his head slowly towards Anders, his eyes flicking from Anders to the door then back. Anders gave him a slow nod, and let himself out of the inn as Dorian turned back to confront his father.

Varric and the Bull glanced up from where they stood with the horses as he closed the door behind him. Anders sighed, then moved to join them.

“His father?” said the Bull.

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that,” replied Anders tiredly. “Let them talk.”

“And after, Boss?”

“We head back to Skyhold,” replied Anders.

***

Dorian was quiet as they rode away from the village. The sun was starting to set, but by unspoken agreement they preferred to make camp rather than remain there.

They set up camp about an hour’s ride from the village. They lit a fire, then Bull decided to go hunt for more firewood and Varric opted to join him, ostensibly to look out for a stream to refill their water canteens.

Dorian had sat down on a fallen log near the fire; in the flickering firelight, he looked tired and sad. After a moment’s indecision, Anders sat down near him.

“Hey,” he said carefully. “How are you feeling? That... back there... I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

Dorian shrugged and gave a sort of wistful little half smile as he stared into the fire. He was silent for a while before he spoke.

“He says we’re alike. Too full of pride,” he said quietly, the firelight reflected dancing in his eyes. “Once, I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now, I’m not so sure.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“He tried to change you,” said Anders softly. Dorian nodded, glancing at him before returning his gaze to the fire.

“I wouldn’t marry the girl, put on a show, keep everything hidden away and secret,” he sighed. “Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.”

“So he was going to use blood magic on you?” said Anders; Dorian nodded.

“To change me. Make me... acceptable. I found out and left.” His voice softened and became almost wistful. “Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it. If he had... I can’t even imagine the person I might be now. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

He sighed, then turned to Anders. “Thank you for bringing me out here. It wasn’t what I expected, but... it’s something. Though Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that display.”

“I think you’re very brave,” replied Anders. “I know it can’t have been easy.”

“Brave?” replied Dorian, and his lips curved up into a slow smile. “The things you say....”

“I mean it,” replied Anders. “I mean all of them. I wouldn’t have let him take you, Dorian.”

“I believe you, too,” said Dorian quietly. “You’d have fought him if he tried.”

“Did you doubt I would?” asked Anders.

“You’d likely have been the first,” shrugged Dorian. He sighed. “But thank you. I appreciate that.”

Anders stared into Dorian’s eyes, and found himself leaning forwards. Dorian’s eyes had softened as he held Anders’ gaze; emboldened, Anders gave him a slow smile.

“And would you appreciate this too?” he murmured before he tilted his head and brushed his lips lightly over those of Dorian.

Dorian’s arms lifted to wrap around Anders and draw him in closer as Dorian deepened the kiss with a low groan; Anders’ lips parted for the altus’ tongue, inviting him in as Anders’ eyes closed; he found himself moaning softly, the sound swallowed up by Dorian’s mouth as Anders yielded to him, allowing Dorian to take charge of this encounter.

Their lips finally parted for breath and Anders opened his eyes as he panted to find Dorian staring at him.

“Well, well, well, Inquisitor,” he said quietly. “I see you enjoy playing with fire. Does this mean you’ve changed your mind after all?”

“You might say that,” replied Anders. “Or perhaps I’ve simply had my eyes opened.”

Dorian leaned in close, pulling Anders’ collar open to press slow kisses along his collarbone then up the side of his neck; Anders inclined his head to the side to allow Dorian better access, and felt Dorian’s lips lightly trail their way up his neck to his ear. “Remind me to thank the Bull later then,” murmured the altus. Anders turned his head to kiss him again, and felt Dorian’s lips curve in a smile as he chuckled.

Anders felt Dorian’s hand slide up his back and then into his hair before Dorian deliberately fisted it then pulled Anders’ head back. Anders closed his eyes with a hiss as his throat was bared, and then he felt Dorian begin to lightly nip and kiss his way up his throat towards his chin.

“Dorian,” he moaned softly, then swallowed as he felt a stirring in his groin. “Tent. Now. Please.”

Dorian chuckled. “Yours or mine?”

“Yours,” breathed Anders.

Dorian tugged him to his feet then began to walk backwards, Anders drawn after him as much by the look in his eyes as by the altus’ grip upon his wrists.

He followed willingly, Hawke entirely forgotten.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Dorian get to know each other better, and there is an unexpected guest awaiting them back at Skyhold.

As Anders ducked his head under the flap and crouched to move into the shadowy confines of the tent, he found Dorian regarding him intently. The altus gestured, and a small globe of magelight drifted up to float near the top of the tent. Dorian’s teeth flashed white in the half-light as he gave Anders an encouraging grin; and then Anders found himself being dragged forward as Dorian cupped the back of his head and drew him into another kiss.

Anders’ lips parted and he moaned softly as Dorian tasted him, slow, deep and leisurely. He closed his eyes as he allowed the altus to claim his mouth. Dorian released his hand to reach up and cup Anders’ cheek; Anders knelt there on all fours as Dorian knelt in front of him and held him there, kissing him until he had to pull away for a gasping breath. Dorian’s hand in his hair stopped him from pulling away entirely; he opened his eyes to find Dorian’s face only a few inches away from his own, grey eyes gazing into his own.

“It’s all very well, this flirting business,” said Dorian quietly. “I am, however, not a nice man. So here’s my proposal: we dispense with the chit chat and move on to something more primal, hmm?”

“I was under the impression that was what we were doing?” Anders murmured with a small smile. Dorian chuckled.

“It’ll set tongues wagging, of course,” the altus continued. “Not that they aren’t already wagging....”

“Let them,” breathed Anders. “I don’t care.”

“And... Hawke?” asked Dorian slowly.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” Anders replied faintly. “I know you heard me last night.”

“I did,” confessed Dorian, and sighed sadly. “And I’m sorry for what he has done to you - though given that it’s brought you here, I cannot find myself able to regret it. But then I did say I am not a nice man.”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” breathed Anders; Dorian chuckled, then obliged with a long, slow kiss that stole Anders’ breath and had him moaning as the altus pulled away.

“You are wearing entirely too many clothes,” Dorian murmured with a slow smile. Anders lifted a hand to the collar of his shirt and made to pull back but Dorian checked him with a touch. “Let me?” 

Wordlessly, Anders sat up and let his hands fall to his sides as Dorian leaned forward and began to slowly unlace his tunic before sliding it gently off Anders’ shoulders. Then he began unbuttoning his shirt.

He undressed Anders wordlessly, glancing often up at the blond apostate from beneath his long dark eyelashes with a small smile. He gently pushed Anders down to lie on his back upon the bedroll and unlaced Anders’ boots before slipping each one off and setting them to one side; then he leaned forward and reached for the laces of Anders’ pants. Anders lifted his hips so Dorian could slide his pants and smallclothes down over his hips, freeing his cock. Anders was already more than half-hard, and he felt a little self-conscious as Dorian paused to regard it appreciatively. The altus lifted his gaze to Anders’ face as he reached out to stroke his cock and Anders gasped softly as he felt it twitch beneath Dorian’s warm hand. 

The altus tugged Anders’ pants off entirely so the blond apostate was entirely naked now, and then he straddled Anders’ thighs as he curled his fingers around Anders’ stiffening length and began to pump it slowly. He chuckled softly as Anders inhaled sharply with a gasp and couldn’t quite fully restrain himself from bucking up into Dorian’s grasp.

“Quite eager, are we?” he smiled.

“For you? Yes,” replied Anders softly, and was rewarded by the sight of Dorian’s eyes darkening with desire in response.

“Then we ought to do something about that, hmm?” Dorian replied.

“Now _you’re_ the one who’s overdressed,” Anders pointed out, then shivered; Dorian’s hand on his cock was stirring up some very pleasant sensations.

“Would you prefer I stopped, then?” asked Dorian, smirking.

“I didn’t say that!” replied Anders hastily, and the altus chuckled. He shifted back slightly then nuzzled a knee between Anders’ thighs; Anders obediently spread his legs open as Dorian settled himself between them. Anders lifted himself up onto his elbows and stared as Dorian lowered himself, and then he bit his lip as he felt the wet heat of the altus’ mouth slowly encircling the head of his cock and the firm moist pressure of Dorian’s tongue swirling around it.

As Dorian sank his head down, swallowing Anders’ cock, Anders let his head drop back with a low groan. “Dorian....” he breathed. The altus hummed a query and then chuckled; the vibrations against his cock caused Anders to shiver involuntarily.

Dorian began working his cock slowly and leisurely with his tongue, sucking steadily as his head rose and fell, making soft, appreciative noises. Anders reached out and slid a hand into the soft dark hair; it felt like silk, soft between his fingers.

Dorian rose up onto his knees again and smiled at the expression on Anders’ face as he returned to pumping Anders’ cock with his fist. Anders knew he must look quite the sight; his cheeks were flushed, face beading with perspiration, hair dishevelled where it had come loose from the tie. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged out the strip of leather, shaking his hair loose, and Dorian hummed again in appreciation.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” he mused. Anders laughed self-deprecatingly.

“Hardly,” he replied. “I’m not as young as I used to be, I’m a mess of scars, too tall, freckled -”

Dorian leaned over and silenced him with a kiss. As he drew back slightly, Anders pouted at him. “And my nose is too big -” he continued, as though the interruption had never occurred.

“I think it’s just perfect as it is,” replied Dorian and kissed the tip to illustrate his point. “And I find your freckles utterly charming.”

“And... my... my scars?” asked Anders, quieter, unsure of himself.

Dorian released his cock to lean forward with his weight on his arms either side of Anders’ waist. He lowered his head and began gently pressing featherlight kisses to each and every scar, starting with the old crossbow bolt wound in his right hip that was a memento of his first encounter with Corypheus. He worked his way up across Anders’ abdomen, kissing the puckered round indentation from an old spear wound before moving on to an old scar from a sword cut across his ribs and then above it, the rough mottled scar from spider venom.

Anders shivered at each touch of Dorian’s lips to his skin; as the altus paused over the scar tissue over his heart, Anders couldn’t repress a faint whimper. At the noise, Dorian’s eyes flicked up to meet his own gaze, and he gave Anders a gentle, reassuring smile. Then he gently kissed the old scars, and Anders let himself fall back down to the bedroll with a stifled sob.

Dorian lifted himself up to stare down at Anders. “Your scars are nothing to be ashamed of,” he said softly. “They are merely a sign that you are a survivor.” His gaze went back to the scar tissue over Anders’ heart. “Though I must marvel at how you ever survived that one,” he added. “Anders, you are a most remarkable man.”

“No, I’m not, I’m just -” Anders began to argue, then broke off with a soft gasp as Dorian bent down to kiss the scars at the joint of his collarbone and his neck where he’d been savaged once by a genlock. Then Dorian claimed his mouth once more as he lowered himself over Anders’ body. Anders was moaning softly and panting when finally Dorian broke away from the kiss and sat up again.

“You’re quite right; I _am_ overdressed,” smiled the altus as his hands reached for the buckles at his shoulder.

Anders watched, his cock now aching and hard as the altus steadily unfastened all the buckles and belts of his tunic, stripping off to reveal a toned and fit body adorned with a winding, ornate blackwork tattoo of a snakelike dragon in Tevene style, its head upon his right shoulder, the long sinuous body winding back over the shoulder then down across his back, the tail continuing down over his left hip to mid-thigh. Anders let his eyes rove slowly up Dorian’s body, from the erect cock now resting against Anders’ abdomen, lightly brushing Anders’ own currently-neglected member; up over the altus’ firm and muscled abdomen and torso, glancing over the well-developed biceps and finally up to Dorian’s face to find the mage smiling at him.

“Like what you see?” inquired Dorian.

“Very much,” whispered Anders, his mouth suddenly dry. 

Dorian shifted back between Anders’ legs once more and curled a hand about Anders’ cock and began pumping it slowly before he bent down, swallowing down Anders’ cock as the blond apostate groaned. He returned to working Anders’ flesh expertly with mouth, tongue and hand until Anders was panting, fighting hard the urge to thrust his hips up towards the inviting warmth of Dorian’s mouth. The altus chuckled, and the vibrations against Anders’ cock had Anders gasping. 

“D-Dorian, please - please, I need - Maker -”

There was a soft whisper of magic, and then Anders felt a slicked finger probing his entrance. “Oh Maker, yes, _please,_ ” Anders breathed as he spread his legs wider, bending his knees and canting his hips to allow Dorian to press his finger deeper. He closed his eyes, focusing on relaxing himself to allow the intrusion as the altus gently pressed a second finger in beside the first. He started to slowly thrust the two fingers in and out of Anders’ tight passage even as he continued to work Anders’ cock with lips, tongue and hand.

“More... please....” Anders begged in a hoarse whisper. He felt Dorian’s fingers scissor inside him, opening him up and stretching before the Tevinter mage added a third finger. Then he drew his fingers back with a little twisting, “come hither” motion that gently stroked Anders’ sensitive place, and the blond mage gasped. He felt his back arch, but Dorian’s hand and mouth upon his cock, his arm resting upon Anders’ hip, kept him pinned. 

Then Dorian did it again, and again, and again until Anders was a writhing, sweaty mess, falling apart beneath Dorian’s hands and mouth and begging, pleading for more. “Please, _please_ Dorian,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I need you inside me _now_!”

Dorian sat up, and Anders cried out, shuddering at the feel of the cool air upon his wet cock. He heard the sound of flesh sliding on slick flesh and lifted his head to see Dorian was slicking himself up. Then the altus drew his other hand out from Ander’s body to hook it beneath the bland man’s knee and tug him closer. He lined the tip of his cock up with Anders’ entrance, and then slowly and carefully pushed in as Anders softly groaned in relief at feeling himself filled at last until Dorian’s shaft was fully seated deep inside Anders’ body.

Dorian leaned forward to brace his hands against the ground either side of Anders’ head and smiled down at him. “Everything alright?” he asked softly. Anders bit his lip, his body slowly adjusting to the feel of Dorian’s cock inside, and then he nodded.

“Move... please,” he whispered as he lifted his legs to wrap them around Dorian’s waist. Dorian answered by slowly rolling his hips, and Anders moaned. Then Dorian began to slowly thrust into him.

It wasn’t like being fucked by Hawke; Dorian was slow and careful, only speeding up when Anders breathlessly begged him for more, his storm-grey eyes regarding Anders with a tenderness Anders had never seen before. He lifted a hand to caress Anders’ cheek; Anders turned his head to kiss Dorian’s palm, and then the altus bent his head to claim Anders’ lips with another kiss as he picked up the pace.

Anders could feel heat steadily coiling low in his abdomen; a growing, insistent pressure building inexorably in his groin as he panted, edging closer and closer as Dorian’s thrusts became faster, more insistent. “H-harder!” he gasped, and Dorian obeyed, now pounding fast and hard into Anders’ willing body. The Tevinter mage shifted slightly, and suddenly every thrust was hitting that perfect sweet spot and Anders couldn’t hold back little panting cries that burst from him with every thrust, faster and faster until finally with a soft, shuddering cry Anders came, his cock pulsing, his seed hot and wet against his abdomen.

Dorian sped up his movements, chasing his own climax, until finally with a low grunt he shuddered and came. Anders felt it - hot, wet, a pulsing throbbing warmth deep inside as Dorian’s movements slowed; and Dorian kissed him again - both of them panting, gasping for breath as finally Dorian drew away and gently slid out of Anders’ body.

Dorian lay down next to Anders, and for a while the only sound in the tent was that of their ragged breathing. Anders could feel his heart racing from the exertion; slowly it calmed as his breathing came easier.

“Thank you,” said Dorian, still a little breathless. “I needed that. I trust it was enjoyable for you too?”

Anders laughed, equally breathless. “Shouldn’t I be the one thanking _you_?” he replied. “Yes, that - that was... Maker, I think I needed that too.”

Dorian chuckled, and for a while they lay there in companionable silence as Anders’ spend cooled on his abdomen and chest. After a while, Dorian sat up, and hunted through his pack for a couple of rags to clean them up with; that done with, he sat there, tracing the scars across Anders’ torso gently with his fingers, a thoughtful look on his face.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Anders softly as he lay there, arms folded beneath his head, watching him.

“I’m... curious where this goes, you and I,” said Dorian hesitantly. “We’ve had fun. Perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get back to the business of killing archdemons and such.”

Anders sat up and stared at Dorian as the altus glanced aside, seemingly unwilling to meet his eyes. Tentatively, Anders reached out a hand to stroke Dorian’s face then gently but firmly turned the altus’ face towards him.

“I want more than just fun, Dorian,” he said softly. “Don’t get me wrong - I’ve done more than my fair share of bed-hopping in the past, and yes - I enjoyed it. But... I can’t do that anymore. I want something more than that... with you.”

Dorian stared at him, blinking slowly, then dropped his gaze.

“Dorian?”

“I was... expecting something different,” said Dorian quietly. “Where I come from, anything between two men... it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further.” He glanced away. “You learn not to wish for more,” he went on, a wistful note in his voice. “You’d be foolish to.”

“Let’s both be fools, then,” replied Anders. “Because I _do_ want more.”

Dorian lifted his head, and smiled at last. He lifted a hand to cup Anders’ cheek, then leaned in to kiss him once more; soft and tender. 

 

***

The following morning, Anders crawled out of Dorian’s tent to find Varric and the Bull sitting by the campfire, exchanging knowing grins with each other. Anders sighed as he stood and made his way over. He levelled a finger at Varric.

“Not a word, dwarf,” he growled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Blondie,” smiled Varric. “We did wonder just how long it would take you to make a move.”

Anders rolled his eyes and sighed again, then shook his head at the dwarf before grinning a little self-consciously.

“Seriously, though, Boss,” said the Bull quietly. “It’s good to see a smile on your face again.”

Dorian was emerging from the tent to make his way over to them, still fiddling with one of the buckles on his tunic. He wandered over to stand by the fire, an absent frown on his face. He seemed restless and tense; with a last stern glare at Varric, Anders turned and walked over to join him. He lifted a hand to rest it gently against Dorian’s back. 

“Everything alright, love?” he asked softly, the little endearment slipping out without thought. Dorian blinked and glanced at him, and then some of the tension seemed to seep out of the altus, and Anders felt his back relax a little beneath his hand as Dorian’s eyes softened and a small, wondering smile curved his lips.

“Yes... yes, I rather think it is, now,” he replied quietly. “Though this feels rather novel to me, I must confess. The... endearments,” he added, waving a hand vaguely.

“I... can stop if that makes you feel uncomfortable,” said Anders slowly; Dorian turned towards him.

“Oh, no, please, don’t stop!” he exclaimed softly. “I rather _like_ it, I’m just... not _used_ to it.” He cupped Anders’ cheek with a gloved hand. “ _Amatus_ ,” he added softly.

“Then I’ll just have to make sure I give you plenty of chances to get used to it, love,” he smiled.

“Please do,” smiled Dorian before he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Anders’ lips.

***

The ride back to Skyhold went much faster than the journey out to Redcliffe had; they were all eager to get back, for their own reasons. Anders felt his reasons and Dorian’s were pretty much the same - a bedroll on the ground in a tent was not the most comfortable or private place to get to know each other properly - “primally”, as Dorian confided quietly. They were looking forward to good hot baths, food not cooked over a campfire for once - and the comfort of the big Ferelden bed in Anders’ quarters. As they rode around a bend in the mountain road, the fortress came into view; and they all spurred their mounts on a little faster.

Cullen and Josephine were waiting in the courtyard as they rode under the massive gate; they both pressed forward as grooms came forward to take their mounts.

“Inquisitor!” called Cullen as he strode towards Anders. “I, ah, trust all went well on your little trip to Redcliffe?”

Anders and Dorian exchanged glances. “It wasn’t quite what we were expecting, but nevertheless worthwhile,” Anders replied as Dorian gave him a small smile.

“I am glad to hear it, Inquisitor,” said Josephine. “We have important matters that demand your attention.”

Anders groaned inwardly. “Can they wait until I’ve at least had a bath and something to eat?” he asked slightly plaintively.

“I’m afraid not, Inquisitor; we have important visitors that have been awaiting your arrival,” replied Josephine. “Prince Vael of Starkhaven arrived yesterday.”

Anders blinked. “Sebastian’s here? Already?” he exclaimed.

“He said it was quite urgent he meet with you,” added Cullen. “He’s waiting in your quarters. Though it looks like the years since Kirkwall haven’t been good to him; he’s lost an eye.”

Anders glanced away. “Yes... I was there when he lost it,” he said absently. “You’re right; I should see him first; a bath will have to wait.”

Dorian patted him on the shoulder. “Duty calls, eh, _amatus_?” he said quietly. “No matter - go see your illustrious visitor. Come find me in the library later?”

Anders gave him a grateful smile. “Of course, love,” he replied. He watched the altus saunter away in the direction of the rotunda, then turned to see Cullen and Josephine exchanging glances. “What?” he asked.

“I see you have been... ah... _cultivating_ your relationship with our Tevinter colleague,” said Josephine thoughtfully.

“What if I have?” replied Anders, frowning.

“It might be wiser to practice a little more discretion, Inquisitor,” said Cullen.

Anders threw his hands up. “Maker’s balls, I thought you’d gotten over your problem with Dorian, Cullen!” he snapped. “I told you - I trust him, and who I choose to associate and - and _cultivate_ ,” he added, glancing at Josephine who blushed, “is entirely my own affair! Now if you’ll excuse me, I prefer not to keep Sebastian waiting!”

He turned and stalked off in the direction of the keep entrance, ignoring Cullen as the Commander tried to call him back. His good mood was rapidly dissipating thanks to Cullen. What business was it of anyone’s if he and Dorian were sleeping together? He would have thought that after how Hawke had been treating him, they would have been _glad_ for him - but no, it seems that some people still just could not look past Dorian’s land of birth to see the man himself.

He took the steps to the main entrance two at a time and strode swiftly through the Great Hall. He heard Leliana calling him, but he didn’t pause, instead taking the stairs up to his quarters at a run. Cullen’s attitude had cast a pall on their homecoming; he hoped that meeting with a friendly face might help alleviate that gloom a little.

He reached the top of the stairs, and strode into the main room, stripping off his riding gloves, and glanced around; then his frown disappeared to be replaced by a warm smile as Sebastian rose from a chair with an answering smile.

“Anders! It is so good to see you, my friend!” the one-eyed Prince exclaimed as he crossed the room to greet Anders. He clapped his hands on Anders’ shoulders and looked him over. “Maker, but you’re as skinny as ever! But no matter - you have no idea how relieved I was to get your message from Varric. We all thought you dead!”

Anders smiled ruefully. “Thankfully not,” he replied.

“I know someone else who’ll be very glad to see you as well,” smiled Sebastian as he led Anders over towards the long couch that faced the balcony doors. There was a figure sat facing away from them, a dark green hood pulled up over their head. 

Anders stared at the figure, at first nonplussed, and then he felt his heart drop as the figure rose. Even before the hood was lowered to reveal snow-white hair, Anders _knew_ who it was.

Fenris turned and stared at him. “Anders,” he said quietly.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long hiatus. Been a bit of a case of Life (TM). Hopefully getting back into the saddle again; in the meantime, a brief update with the next chapter to follow shortly.

Anders couldn’t breathe. 

“Anders? Maker, are ye alright? Ye’ve gone white!” exclaimed Sebastian as he hurried to Anders’ side. 

Fenris was still staring at Anders as he moved towards the mage. Anders could only watch as the elf drew nearer; he was barely aware of Sebastian’s hand under his elbow, the Prince urging him to sit down, guiding him towards the nearest couch; Anders couldn’t take his eyes off the elf.

This wasn’t like meeting Hawke. He wasn’t going to be given respite through fainting. Though Maker, he felt like he might; he could barely draw breath, and there was a ringing in his ears. Sebastian evidently thought he was about to keel over; the Starkhaven prince had pressed him gently into the couch, and was urging him to take a sip of wine.

Maybe if he closed his eyes, he would open them again to find this had all been a dream.

“Anders? Anders! ... blessed Andraste, Fenris - help me, man!”

He was aware of hands loosening his collar, unfastening his tunic. a hand in his - warm, sword calloused. A low rumble. “Amatus?”

He swallowed hard and opened his eyes. It was no dream; Fenris was staring into his eyes, the emerald of his eyes impossibly bright as Anders’ eyes swam with tears.

“Fenris, Hawke... Hawke said...” Anders couldn’t get the words out.

“He told me you were dead,” said Fenris. His voice was rough, the emerald eyes glimmering wetly. “In his letter. He did not come himself. I should have known... I thought, if you had died....”

“I’m sorry,” Anders gasped. “I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve forgiveness. I... I don’t -”

Fenris’ hand, cupping his cheek - _as though I were even capable of pulling away,_ Anders thought dazedly as he stared into Fenris’ eyes. “Amatus,” murmured Fenris, brow furrowed in confusion. “What is wrong? What did Hawke say to you?”

“He said that when you were told I was at the Conclave, you... you collapsed,” whispered Anders. “That you were overcome with grief. And he... he was so angry, Fenris. More than I’ve ever seen him before.”

“Anders.” Fenris’ eyes had hardened. “What did he do to you?”

Anders gasped. Of course, Fenris knew - knew just how Hawke’s anger would twist and ground itself, seeking something - some _one_ \- to hurt. Back at the start, when first they were fumbling their way with each other, finding a new equilibrium between them, Anders inevitably the one tying them together and taking the brunt of Hawke’s anger.

“Anders? Would you rather I left you two alone? Or is there anything I can do?” asked Sebastian gently. “Anders... did Hawke hurt you?”

Anders swallowed hard, then slowly sat up, brushing Fenris’ hand aside as he got to his feet and walked slowly over towards the balcony doors, wrapping his arms around himself, head bowed. An hour ago, he had been happy; happy as he hadn’t been for months. Now, he felt dread coiling in his guts as he contemplated telling Fenris of what Hawke had done - and breaking the news to him of what _he_ had done with - 

Maker, of all people, the son of a magister.

Anders swallowed hard against a mouth, a throat suddenly gone dry.

“Anders?” prompted Sebastian gently.

“Sebastian, would you... leave us for a while, please?” asked Anders, his own voice distant in his ears as he stared out at the mountains. “Fenris and I need to... to talk."


	23. Chapter 23

Anders stared out at the snow-capped peaks of the Frostbacks as he heard Fenris shifting restlessly. Fenris had always been restless, he remembered; rarely able to keep still, always the first to say they should move on when they were out somewhere on one of Hawke’s little errands and -

Hawke. It still brought a pang of pain whenever he thought of the man; a tightness in his chest and in his throat.

“Anders,” said Fenris softly. “I have heard much of what you have done here. The mages -”

Anders glanced around to find Fenris standing beside him. The elf’s gaze was upon the mountains rather than the man at his side. “Are you... are you angry?” he managed to stammer out. “For - for giving them sanctuary here?”

Fenris shot him a startled glance. “Angry? No! Why would - Anders, you thought I would be angry with you for that?”

Anders exhaled shakily. “I thought you might be,” he confessed. “I know you have little love for mages.”

Fenris frowned slightly. “Not all mages. And whilst I may not have always seen eye to eye with you concerning your ideas, I was not blind to the injustices done to them by the Chantry. It was _you_ who opened my eyes to that, my heart. After Hawke left you for dead in Kirkwall, it was the mages’ side we took; though Hawke could not condone your methods, nor could we condone the wholesale slaughter of innocent children. The apprentices had done nothing to deserve such a fate and nor, I realised, had the older mages. An accident of birth should not condemn anyone thus.” He stared up at Anders. “You know of this. We have discussed it before. Why should I be angry that you took them in rather than leave them to the less than tender mercies of the templars gone rogue? No, I knew you would have instigated some form of teaching here, as you had often spoken of. The mages would be safeguarded and taught control, as is needed, but without the abuses visited upon them in the Circles. I know your scars intimately, _amatus_ -” Anders shivered at his words even as Fenris went on, “- and I saw them upon those wretches we saved in the Gallows. I saw the truth of what you had fought so long to tell me, and I have never forgotten it.”

“Then... had you been with us when the news of the Conclave reached us -”

“I would not have stood in your way, Anders,” rumbled Fenris quietly. “Rather, I would have stood by your side.”

“Then you would have died,” replied Anders bleakly. “Cassandra and Leliana told me there were no survivors from the Conclave apart from me, and I have no memory of what happened. But it would have destroyed me to have lost you there.”

Fenris fixed him with a steady stare. “Anders, I think it is time you told me of all that has befallen you since I first heard you had gone to the Conclave.”

****

Fenris paced, cursing under his breath, agitated. Anders sat uneasily perched upon the edge of his seat and watched him miserably.

“I knew - I _knew_ you’d be angry,” he said quietly. Fenris whirled and stared at him aghast.

“He had _no right!_ ” the elf snarled, coldly furious. “After all this time - that Hawke should treat you thus! I shall kill him for this!”

Anders leapt up in alarm. “Fenris, no!” he exclaimed as he raised his hands placatingly. “He didn’t even hurt me that much - it wasn’t like the templars -”

“Even now, you still defend him,” said Fenris softly. “How can you love him still, after what he did? Anders, he r-”

“I _know_ what he did!” Anders shouted as he stared at Fenris, feeling his eyes prickle. The elf fell silent, and stared at him as Anders repeated, softer, “I know. I know what he did to me. I’m not defending him or what he did.”

“Then - why -” began Fenris, quiet now, confusion in his eyes as Anders turned away, his turn now to pace. 

“Because - because - I don’t know,” he confessed, throwing his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “Because I loved him once, and I couldn’t believe he was doing it to me. I don’t know how I feel any more except that it’s complicated, and that now he’s no longer here in Skyhold I miss him and yet I dread the thought of seeing him again. I - I can’t put myself through that again. And -”

“And?” echoed Fenris, his eyes following the blond as Anders’ pacing slowed until he came to a halt and turned to face Fenris with a miserable expression. Fenris’ frown deepened as he moved closer to the mage, lifting a hand to lay it on Anders’ shoulder before gently yet firmly pushing him back down into a nearby chair.

“Anders,” he said softly. “Hawke lied to you. He told you he had seen me collapse with his own eyes. But he never came near me. He sent a letter and that was the last I ever heard from him. It does not surprise me that he chose not to tell me that you live. He was always jealous, I think, that you also loved me; and I do not think he has ever been able to get over that. He wanted to own you.”

Anders opened his mouth to argue but fell silent as Fenris lifted a hand. “Peace; I have not finished yet,” the elf said. Wordlessly, Anders nodded for him to go on.

“I was still in Antiva when Hawke’s letter reached me,” Fenris said as he began to pace slowly once more. “I had but recently tracked down the last of that slaver gang I had been hunting for months - the ones that had been operating through Rialto; you remember?” Anders nodded, and Fenris went on. “I found the last of them not far from Cadiz. I was out of supplies and wounded; a friend of Isabela’s found me there and came to my aid. He treated my injuries and helped me return to Rialto where I was due to meet with Isabela. It was there that Hawke’s letter reached me as I recovered. A bare handful of lines, stating that you had gone to Haven and had perished there. And then nothing.

“Isabela wrote to him, informing him I was too injured to travel and urging him to come - but Hawke refused. Neither Isabela nor I could fathom why. She wrote to Varric in Kirkwall but there was no answer; we did not know then that Varric had left Kirkwall some time before. I was in mourning, slowly recovering, and Isabela and I did not know why Hawke would turn his back on us. We decided to travel to Starkhaven; it seemed as good a place as any to spend the winter whilst I recovered and we waited for news. It was there that we heard news of this Inquisition. Starkhaven’s mages had received word that sanctuary was offered to all mages by the Inquisition, but they had no reason to accept that offer - they had had their freedom ever since Sebastian enacted your suggested reforms, after all. It was not until Sebastian received Varric’s message from you that we realised just who this mysterious ‘Trevelyan’ really was.”

Fenris paused and gave Anders a small smile. “You cannot know how glad it made my heart to hear such news, though I wondered why you did not send word to me yourself. But then I realised that you must have been keeping your identity a secret still - and that you had no way of knowing where I was. Sebastian sent a reply, and we set out directly after. If I had known of how Hawke was treating you...!”

Anders sighed. “You had no way of knowing at that point; Hawke arrived about the same time that the message from Sebastian did.” He looked down at his hands. “So... you and Isabela....” he began slowly.

“Companions, but no more than that, _mi amatus_ ,” said Fenris. “There is no-one else for me but you, Anders. You know this.”

Anders felt his throat constrict as he stared at the floor, feeling tears prickling his eyes hotly once more. He dared not glance up, guilt weighing heavily in his chest. “And Is -” He paused and had to swallow hard. “Did - did she come with you?” he finally managed.

“She had to return to the ship,” replied Fenris.

“Oh,” was all Anders could reply. He wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

“And... you?” said Fenris, his voice much quieter. “Is there anyone else for you? Did Hawke drive you away to someone else’s arms? I would not fault you if he had, _amatus_ ; you have had much to endure and I know from Sebastian that rulership is lonely. What Hawke did to you was wrong, and -”

Anders couldn’t stop the choked sob that burst from his throat. Fenris fell silent as Anders clapped a hand over his mouth to try and stifle the sobs that followed, with little success. He’d been sitting there, the guilt building and building. Fenris was being so gentle and understanding - the complete opposite of how Hawke had been. There was no anger directed towards Anders here - only Fenris’ censure of how Hawke had behaved. No possessiveness, no overt claim upon Anders’ body - the elf was respectful of Anders’ personal space, unlike Hawke who had sought to crowd into it repeatedly, as though to demonstrate to Anders himself as well as to any onlookers that he belonged to Garrett Hawke, who was a jealous man. The two men could not have been more different; and it only made Anders feel all the worse for having betrayed Fenris by turning to Dorian.

Anders slid to his knees at Fenris’ feet. “Forgive me,” he wept. “I - I knew I shouldn’t - I didn’t - but - but after H-Hawke - and I w-was so lonely -”

Fenris knelt before Anders and tried to gently draw the weeping man into his arms. “Hush, _mi amatus_ ,” he rumbled soothingly. “You are tired; you have been travelling most of the day, as I understand it, and you have not eaten. You are overwrought. You had no idea where to find me; from what you have told me, you believed me near-cataleptic and somewhere at sea with Isabela thanks to Hawke. If you have sought comfort from another then I do not hold it against you or fault you for that. Did you think I would be like Hawke and seek to punish you?”

“Damn you, why do you have to be so reasonable?” gasped Anders, trying to laugh though with not much success. He remained where he knelt, resisting as Fenris tried again, without success, to draw him into his embrace. 

“Foolish mage,” rumbled Fenris. He took hold of Anders’ chin and the mage found himself gently forced to look the elf in the eye. “Anders, you could not make me angry unless you chose to bed a magister - at which point I _might_ perhaps be goaded to the point of doing something we might both regret.” He frowned. "Though I think that unlikely."

Anders managed a ghastly grin. “Near enough,” he found himself whispering. “An altus.”

He closed his eyes and held still, waiting for Fenris to strike him.

There was silence for a moment, and Fenris’ hand fell away from Anders’ chin. “An altus,” echoed Fenris quietly.

Anders swallowed hard and nodded, not opening his eyes. 

He felt a stirring of the air and he couldn’t help himself - he flinched.

“Anders?” Fenris’ voice was startled, and then the elf swore. “What has that damned Hawke done?” he growled. The next minute, Anders felt hands close around his biceps and he was hauled to his feet. Anders’ eyes flew open and he stared into Fenris’ green eyes in surprise. “I will not strike you, _mi amatus,_ ” Fenris assured him. “Not even for all the alti in Minrathous.” 

“W-wasn’t all of them,” stammered Anders. “Just the one. Called Dorian. Not his fault - please don’t do your glowy fist of death thing on him!” He was aware he was babbling, even as Fenris continued to frown at him. “Are - are you - please, I know you’re angry but - please, don’t take it out on him, just - hit me, scream at me, whatever you like only please, it’s not his fault I -”

Fenris laid a gauntleted finger against Anders’ lips and he fell silent.

“Hush,” said the warrior. “I will not hit you. And it is Hawke’s fault that you should even suggest such a thing. You are tired and, knowing you, you will not have eaten properly. I shall call for food, and after that you will sleep. And then we will talk about your altus.” He lowered his hand.

“Please don’t hurt him,” whispered Anders.

Fenris shook his head. “For your sake, I will not,” he said slowly. “But I _shall_ want to speak to this Dorian. _After_ you have slept.”

Anders swallowed, then nodded.


End file.
